I hate this time of year. I need work and things to do. Seeing as I was totally immobile for almost two weeks when people were more or less in the general area, I will now proceed to add to my protective, isolated, angry force-field that is directed primarily at my family and the inactivity thereof.

I am not good at being, I thrive by doing, which is why I loved school. This is why I do not read books unless I am also very busy, because it feels unproductive. I am great at wallowing and fretting about not having things to do. I am terrible at finishing projects I have started.

I have various creative bits and pieces to pursue, but since hearing my parents rowing this morning about how I’m not doing anything at the moment, I feel excessive guilt for wanting to do anything that’s just for me and my own indoor creative exploit. Why don’t you tell that to your son who doesn’t have a qualification to his name instead?

I could get driving lessons, I thought, and looked up the nearest school, the slogan of which blares “IF YOU’RE NOT DRIVING, YOU’RE NOT LIVING.”

Well. That’s nice to know.