the procrastinator

I’ve got so much to do: bills to pay, accounts to balance, jobs to chase, invoices to write, scripts to edit (for work) scripts to read (for friends), presents to buy, cards to sign, a house to clean, a dentist to find, a gym to actually utilise at some point before I turn forty…

There’s always something I should be doing.

It’s always been a problem. I was a crammer at school. One of those people who, after a quick revision session at the back of the schoolbus, left their exam results in the lap of the gods. I hated homework. I really resented spending those few precious hours between home-time and bed writing 500 words or more on why Elizabeth The First Was a Terrible Monarch (that’s a Catholic education for you – never knowingly underselling itself).

I thought it was a phase but here I am, well beyond school-leaving age, with three scripts to re-storyline and a looming deadline. Am always amazed at how industrious I can be in these circumstances. So far today, I have been to the supermarket, swept up the leaves in my garden (it’s September, an utterly pointless exercise), I’ve done the ironing, booked a train ticket, surfed the internet (that’s three hours, right there) THEN noticed my windows needed cleaning…

There is a delicate balance between how pressing a task is and how inventive the displacement activity must be to offset it. I once went to Barcelona on a train to avoid looking for a job. I’m hoping for a seriously complex set of script notes soon as my skirting board needs a repaint. Meanwhile, the scripts I’m (supposed to be) working on sit patiently on my desk. A Mexican stand-off. We both know that, at some point, within the next few days, the adrenaline will kick in and I’ll be reaching for them with my pen in hand, ready for business, no messing. They look completely unflustered by this. Boy, they’re good.