I don’t *work* on Mondays. Which I have systematically failed at nearly every Monday of this academic year. Because I reason that it prevents my day job taking over the weekend, and all of the evenings of the week. Which it inevitably does.
Part-way through the year a very sensible and much more wiserer colleague told me it had to stop. So I bartered away a Saturday as a non-working day. And checking emails to becalm rising panic doesn’t count right?
Turns out that doesn’t count. It just shifts the madness over a bit. And makes you swallow the anxiety down a bit. And pisses off everyone who has to live with you quite a bit.
Every digital means tells me that I should be incredibly giddy, phenomenally #soblessed and maximising every waking hour in the never-ending pursuit of career highs and lifestyle highers. But if that was the case, would the process feel a little more ‘grrr, let’s get on with it’ and a lot less ‘bleurgh, I think I’m going to be sick’? Don’t get me wrong, I’m a massive fan of hard work, get bored when I can do things, and need a challenge. But I don’t think acing all of life can be done all at once. It’s taken me until 37 to realise I can’t chuffing time-travel.
I’ve been working on changing because this year has sucked a bit. I’m a couple of grandparents down on last year, demotivation and itchy-feet are at a high and I spend a disproportionate amount of my time re-watching ‘Long Way Down’ and wondering whether I could pick up a fully loaded BMW motorbike in Mongolia (the answer is an emphatic ‘no’).
Which brings me to the importance of figgy rolls. Hadn’t had one for ages. One of the dads on pick up shared them in the park. Bloody lovely they are. Could have done with a Thermos of tea (personal life target to remember for the next academic year on the day I do pick up). But it’s what came with the figgy rolls that mattered. Being asked why I didn’t write this fluffle anymore. Because they quite enjoyed reading it.
I probably won’t be able to realistically lift a motorbike in Mongolia because I don’t really want to live in a gym for a year before hand. I definitely won’t be a Headteacher, not because I couldn’t if I worked sodding hard at it, but because I don’t want to. But I can eat figgy rolls, I can write fluffle to strangers and I will remember the Thermos of tea and at least two mugs when the weather gets chilly.