I have been reveling in the mistiness this week. This was Sunday morning on the canal, me cycling south to my nine o'clock class (breathe one, two three; lovely one, two three), and the committed runners going north. By the time I reached the Thames, completely shrouded in fog, my eyelashes were wet with fogginess. I want to remember it because it was so delicious and I know if I don't write it down now, I'll forget how utterly lovely it was.
Getting up early(ish) and with purpose on Sunday morning fills me with enough sanctimony to last all week. The concept of busy-ness is, of course, completely relative. Without the discipline of the metaphorical factory whistle, or Microsoft calendar, my days elide one into the other . I have to supply my own discipline these days. It has become easier, but it has taken quite a while. At least I'm dressed before porridge time now, packed lunch made for himself while my coffee cools down. No more lazing in the bath listening to the history of the world in one hundred objects while the clock ticks on to ten o'clock. (It's a metaphorical tick. Working clocks are only available when the radio and laptop are switched on.)
There are still a hundred things to do but, without the urgency of a deadline, it is pot luck what comes first. Library books are reserved and renewed electronically. Bills paid by direct debit. Shopping avoided by recycling. Occasionally everything falls into place and there is a surge of productivity - emails sent, blog posts written, skirts hemmed, aprons sewn, washing stacked, cakes baked, puddings steamed, holes mended, papers read, cupboards cleared, lists ticked. Other days just pass in a haze. That might be why I enjoy autumn so very much.