While working on some code this afternoon one of my co-workers wandered over to check if I had keys to the office. I glanced at the clock, and realised it was already 6pm. How the hell did that happen? After a quick call home to apologise in advance, I jumped on the bike and started out towards home.
I rarely remember the journey to or from work. I just pedal, and my brain goes elsewhere. Sometimes I’m pulled back into the real world – you know, like when a pedestrian walks out in front of me without looking, or when an idiot driver tries to kill me – but by and large, I daydream all the way home. Sometimes I think of great ideas for blog posts, but by the time I get home, clear the kitchen, put the rubbish out, pick up the mountain of debris in the hallway, eat dinner, wash up, clear the kitchen again, put some washing in the machine, take some washing out of the dryer, and finally sit down well by then whatever the hell I thought of two hours before has long gone.
It’s not all chores though. I’ve sat staring at the computer in the junk room for the last hour, procrastinating famously rather than start typing anything. I wandered into Spotify for a while, and somehow ended up listening to a Keith Urban track – that led to a search for cowboy photos, with the idea of writing a post about how country music polarises people (I don’t mind it, for the record). Of course this post isn’t about country music – because in the end I just started typing, and this just sort of happened.
It’s funny really – some people write insightful, sweeping blog posts about their adventures, their thoughts, their ideas, their hopes – I just kind of write, and whatever comes out gets published to the web a few minutes later. Sometimes the words fall out of me like turning a tap on, but invariably it’s a fight against any distraction you might dream up – even country music.
Tonight was a battle of two halves – the first won by Spotify, YouTube, and Wikipedia – the second won by a tired software developer sitting in the dark of the junk room with only the distant sound of his daughter’s hairdryer for company.
Anyway. I think it’s probably time to stop this nonsense, go make a very English cup of tea, and then go hide somewhere with a book.