Nothing of Consequence

The clock is ticking towards midnight, and you find me sitting at the dinner table in the lounge with the laptop. I started writing this post fifteen minutes ago, but somehow found it much more important to first finish my cup of tea, then copy some music over from the networked hard-drive in the other room - to listen to while writing this. Of course that didn’t quite go to plan - I had to tinker with Windows 10, and then install a half-decent music player app. None of this got me any closer to writing anything. It never does. I think I know why too.

I don’t actually have anything to share today. Well… nothing of consequence. Not that I’m letting that stop me. I’ve written far more about far less in the past, and I imagine I will in the future too. It’s a particular skill - filling a screen with text that serves nobody, goes nowhere, and achieves nothing. If procrastination had an awards system, I imagine it would involve some sort of ceremonial sash that could be worn to literary events, and admired by fellow procrastinators.

Anyway. Enough of this nonsense. It’s almost half-past my bedtime. Time to go sit in bed and noodle around with the Amazon tablet for a while - studiously avoiding reading any of the books stacked on the bedside table. Making any actual progress at anything would seem quite ridiculous, all things considered.