In a metaphorical sense more than a literal one. I’m not actually lost anywhere. I’ve not been any further than the front door and I’m not quite yet in a state of mind to get lost between the kitchen and the living room.
I have spent the weekend aimlessly drifting from one mindless activity to another.
For the past three years, almost without fail, I have spent my weekends rowing. Sure, there have been breaks in this regime for holidays and trips etc, but these have been the odd, different weekends. A normal weekend has me out by seven or eight, rowing until midday and getting home at about one completely shattered.
Anything I get done in the afternoon is a bonus. More often than not it’s spent either trying to keep my eyes open or giving in and sleeping.
This week it rained. Rain isn’t a problem (unless you’re a witch). On the other hand big rain makes rivers swell. Again, this isn’t usually an issue, it just makes rowing more difficult.
This week we’ve had really big rain. The sort of rain that makes the river climb out of the banks, up the landing stage and the steps and into the boathouse. The sort that blocks roads and puts people’s houses in severe need of decorating. I have no particular desire to paddle to the boathouse. Compare, if you will, the boathouse as normal and the boathouse as of late. It’s quite shocking.
So I’m lost. I’m at home on a weekend with nothing going on. And no rowing. I don’t know what to do with myself.