Where does all the time go?

At a pub crawl on Friday, someone was complaining that they were bored in the evenings and, separately, that K. and I didn’t turn up to anything in Oxford any more. In the first instance I suggested rather sarcastically that my heart bled for people bored in the evenings—start at the front door of Blackwell’s and begin reading, and when you reach the back door move to Waterstone’s, and only after that tell me you’re bored—and in the second we protested that we were so busy with everything, and we never had time because of all the stuff we had to do. But what, they argued? Is there really so much to do?

Two pints down (so off the top of my head in more ways than one) I honestly couldn’t say.

This week, therefore, I’m keeping a vague record of what I’ve had to do between the six o’clock or so I normally get home and going to bed four and a half hours later (K. is on early mornings to commute to Oxford in time). I was going to do it for the five weekdays, but—what do you know?—Friday has become so unutterably busy that I’ll never write this down if I wait until then.

  • Planned:
    • Wedding
      • Start learning language for honeymoon
      • Install language software on laptop
      • Find everyone else’s wedding invites
      • Contact possible DJ
      • Find agent for possible band for entertainment
      • Book 4 days of honeymoon accommodation over e-mail
      • Sort out my ushers
      • Book flights
      • Help (briefly) with stag night
    • Transport
      • Book driving test
      • Book 9 hours of lessons
    • Other
      • Tidy house
      • Move futon for weekend house guest
      • Tidy spare room
      • Move old bookcase into spare room
      • Install WordPress
  • Unexpected:
    • Transport
      • Cycle home in heavy snow
      • Fix bike (again)
      • Fix bike lights
    • Other
      • Plan weekend for German house guest
      • Two hours’ commute one night, via Oxford

This doesn’t include what K. has had to do: it’s just my diary. If that was half a working week, I might fit it in and raise no sweat. As it is, that’s my eighteen hours’ spare time this week, swallowed up long after the clock has been punched and I’m meant to be drinking my brandy and listening to Front Row. So do you really want to know why we aren’t coming to the pub quiz?

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