I am not busy today. The only appointment in my diary all day is to have my hair cut. I have a number of things I need to finish by tomorrow night and if I don't do some of them today I will have too much to do tomorrow. It is 11.55 a.m. I have pottered around the periphery of the necessary work like a snooker player lining up an awkward shot. I have tried to get the right angle. I've looked at all the alternatives. I've changed cue and taken a toilet break.
But you see I know I am going to spend today reading, pootling, thinking, inventing, pondering, walking, eating, drinking. I am not undisciplined. I simply cannot generate creativity without a bit of pressure.
Tomorrow night's Alpha talk will be fine. The meal will be catered. Sunday's sermon will be good enough. The Lent course will be re-written. Until the light goes on which says the race begins nothing will make the journey from the back of my mind to the front. Or maybe, to cock up the metaphor completely, I don't overtake until I see the chequered flag. There you go. From snooker to motor racing without a pause for breath.
Do you know I could even polish my screen-play if I knew someone would buy it; finish the novel if it already had a publisher.
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