Day Three: Am I being bootycalled?

8.30 am

I wake up, groan myself to movement, roll out from under the covers and, heavy from last night’s snacking, heave myself to vertical. A lurch to the toilet and then I am seated at my desk, staring out at the mist, the dank dullness of early morning grey. Time to work.

It is Saturday.

Why am I working? Well, dear reader, because turns out working from home has its downsides. In a twist I didn’t see coming and one I realised at approximately 4pm yesterday evening as middle sister was whooping and hollering from the isolation of far-off downstairs after her boss told her to log off for the weekend, there are consequences for taking 1.5 hour lunch breaks to get lost down boreens and cook up meals that, while sumptuous, are resoundingly not worth the time I am lavishing on them. Reader, I have been misappropriating emphasis in the phrase “working from home” and it is, in fact, “work” which is the operative word in that holy trinity of procrastinating, dish-washer-stacking, pet-cossetting possibility.

Oops.

It has become apparent to me that saying “I’ll just finish this later” is not the same as actually finishing the thing later. Intention does not equal execution and while I have spent the past decade learning and relearning this – saying you will go for a run doesn’t, quite unfairly in my opinion, burn any calories unless you do actually go for a run – it seems I erroneously assumed coronavirus would alter this fact of life too. For the love of god, it’s closed PUBS – surely its powers could bend the rules of productivity just a little?

Alas, not to be. Keeping your laptop optimistically on, beaming hope at you as you swan in and out of your bedroom, does not miraculously inspire within you a Lizzo-level work ethic. Quite the opposite, in fact. I can’t tell you how many chocolates I’ve had to eat to distract myself from the growing list of the undone.

8.55 am

And so, here I am. Bright, bushy-bodied – my beautician will relish the wax job awaiting her come September 2021 when this purgatory finally ends – and ready to right yesterday’s wrongs. LET’S DO THIS.

9.01 am

DO NOT GO ON INSTAGRAM DO NOT GO ON INSTAGRAM DO NOT GO ON INSTAGRAM.

Fuck it, I’d love a coffee. Or a cigarette.

Even though I don’t smoke*, a cigarette would be frigging fantastic right now. Mmm with a side of hash browns.

9.04 am

…Instagram is such a waste of time. I mean, look at this perfectly pointless story this influencer put up – why would they think I would want to watch – OH MY GOD THAT IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN I MUST IMMEDIATELY GO ON TO THEIR PAGE TO FIND SIMILAR CONTENT AND THEN THEIR FRIENDS’ PAGES AND THEN MAYBE AN ODD EX-BOYFRIEND SO I CAN FIND NEW WAYS TO FIND MYSELF INADEQUATE.

9.07 am

I put my phone on the other side of the room. Face down. On silent. So glad I got all my procrastinating done in one beautiful, bulimic binge and now I can settle down and just, like, really focus, you know? Create. I’ll just put on David O’Doherty’s latest podcast episode and see how he’s getting on in Achill and then I’m ready to go. It’s important to have white noise in the background for optimum concentration – I definitely read that somewhere.

9.09 am

Jaysus poor David’s having an awful time of it over there in Achill.

9.12 am

My phone buzzes earnestly. Incessantly. Urgently. I trip over every limb I possess in the hurl to the locker to answer whatever emergency is summoning me from my WhatsApp crisis centre. An unrecognised number. A lengthy text. I am salivating with the intrigue, drunk on the digital contact with a stranger, my mind already racing towards outlandish projections and aspirations for the black and white portrait of a man I don’t recognise beckoning at me from the unblinking eye of a WhatsApp profile picture.

The text begins, “Hey, this is definitely a blast from the past…”

Just to reiterate, I cannot tell from his icon who this person is. I can tell you that they appear to be good-looking but on reading that first opening sentence – which, let’s be honest does and SHOULD set off alarm bells – my initial thought is not “ahh, yes, what a blast, some past” but rather “did we have a blast in the past, potentially handsome, potentially psychotic stranger?”

My second thought. Wait, what? It is 9.12 am on a Saturday morning and we all know where a “hey, this is random but…” text must inevitably lead – am I really about to be bootycalled by a long-forgotten (probably with good reason) stranger from a past I generally try and at least dim if not entirely cloak in darkness??

I mean, I have content to create and haven’t gotten fully dressed in a week so am kinda here for the lols and validation in equal measure, but REALLY?

I keep reading.

I remain nonplussed as to the identity of this all-together too-much morning person who has decided to take it upon himself to “go through the phonebook” (if this is an innuendo or euphemism can someone please let me know?) and reach out to a woman he hasn’t seen or spoken to in at least four years. It ends with his name, a university institution and the parting salutation of “…years ago!” that one can only assume is meant to normalise this bolt-from-the-blue intrusion into my Saturday morning.

It does not.

10.12 am

I begin typing my reply.

*I do sometimes smoke though.

TREE TINGS

• David O’Doherty’s new podcast with Second Captains – ISOLATING WITH DAVID O’DOHERTY. Any man that refers to himself as ‘the hairy Enya’ and combines jokes, music, and cycling shorts in one human form is a person I never DON’T want to hear from.
• Porridge topped with whipped cream and a sprinkle (a v v v generous sprinkle) of salt. Yes, you read that right. This is potentially my favourite meal in the universe. Personally, for ultra-satisfaction, I choose to ration the cream, putting only a little on at a time so it doesn’t all melt and you get the beautiful fusion of hot and cold. Prepare to have your mind blown.
• Puzzle time. Time spent doing jigsaw puzzles. Puzzling. Have I been clear enough?