I have a confession to make. The reason you didn’t get a journal last week wasn’t because I was sick. It was because I just couldn’t find the time. Or make the mental space, maybe, more on that in a bit. In my defence, the first two weeks that I skipped the journal, earlier in September, I absolutely was sick. My boss got sick at the end of August, came to work anyway, and a week or so later, I was knocked on my arse. The doctor wrote me a note for the Friday before the first skipped journal. I was home in bed that weekend, the whole following week, the next weekend and most of the Monday that followed. I then went back to work last week Tuesday, and by the time Friday morning had rolled around, I hadn’t made time to write the journal. Since I had skipped two weeks on account of my being sick, I didn’t think anyone would chase up a third week, but I was wrong! A few dear readers were concerned about my well-being, and, indeed, wanted an update, so I am writing this, partially, to set those concerns at ease. For the record, I am sorry if you feel in taking an extra week that I pulled one over on you, that wasn’t my intention.
I very nearly decided not to write a journal this week, either, but I want to try and give you a picture of my life at the moment instead, and hope that it falls on sympathetic ears. I started writing this journal on Thursday night, just after showering and brushing my teeth, somewhere around quarter past ten. This morning, I woke up at ten past seven, rolled out of bed and slipped into the bathroom to wash my face and clean my teeth. I usually, then, make myself a cup of tea and write (not Jeremy’s Journal) for ten to fifteen minutes. This morning, though, I got a call at seventeen minutes past seven from a housemate that moved out earlier this month, asking me to fill in a form confirming that he’s moved out because he needs to give it to the bureaucratic powers that be. Oh, and he needs it by today. After what would have been my tea-fuelled writing time, I ate breakfast and had about half an hour of quiet time. An alarm rings on my phone at eight seventeen every day, which leaves me just enough time to slap on some Old Spice and a pair of jeans before I duck out of the front door. I get to work just before nine. This morning, I called my girlfriend while I stood on the platform and did some banking on my phone while I sat on the train. When I got to work, I filled out the form for the former housemate. I then set about telling my bosses about the Excel sheet they asked me to make while they only half-listened. I took a lunch break at twelve forty with the rest of the staff. Before I started eating, my boss asked me if I’d called one of our vendors yet. I told him no. He tutted. This is the same man who tells me that 'he doesn’t want to be involved in the details of my work, he just wants me to do it’, anytime I get into the weeds about my tasks. We all ate together and chatted about how much more expensive houses have become and how much debt France is in. I went for a little walk around the block. I worked until six. My boss told me today that they won’t be giving me a forty-hour-a-week contract, certainly not until the new year. Huge bummer. I’m applying to rent an apartment in about two weeks, and I was hoping that the new contract would help fortify my application. On account of my having a grumpy day and only having ravioli at home, I swung by the grocery store to buy the ingredients for a pick-me-up pizza. On the way hom,e my train was late. I got home at seven. By the time I had eaten and washed the dishes, it was eight. I then left the kitchen for my bedroom and began writing a cover letter for the apartment application. Though the landlord will only read the application in October, I’ve got to drop it off tomorrow. When that was finished, I had a few more chores to settle up. At half past nine, I thought I was home free when I remembered about the journal. I relaxed for about fifteen minutes before hopping in the shower.
Every morning is identical to today’s (other than the phone call, thank the Lord). I wake up, write, eat, have quiet time, go to work. When I’m healthy, I wake up an hour earlier to exercise after quiet time and before work. My theory is, get all the important stuff done in the morning. Every evening seems to fill itself. This past weekend I was in Cologne visiting my girlfriend’s parents, whom I last saw in June and will next see at Christmas. I arrived home on Monday at midnight. On Tuesday evening, I got home, meal prepped my lunches for the week, made myself supper and returned a friend’s call. We ended up chatting for at least half an hour. Then I showered and got into bed, shattered from the late train the day before. On Wednesday night, I got home, did a load of washing, made supper, washed the dishes, hung the washing and then video-called my parents, which ended up lasting two hours. Which I loved, as an important side note. Tomorrow night, I will leave work and go directly to the new apartment for a viewing. I’ll probably only get home around eight thirty. So you can see how the only time I could have possibly written the journal this week was now. Thursday night. It’s eleven now, bedtime.
It’s not that I don’t like the journal, or that I don’t want to write it—though those have been problems in the past. I think it just isn’t high enough on my list of priorities. I can only do so much. And I am headed for burnout, fast. I need to, maybe want to, take a little time for myself. To play, to rest, to do the things I’m interested in, to zone out. I’d love to be regularly unproductive. As it stands, I end up rushing the journal every week. Just get it out, write something, anything. No matter the quality. I go back and read some of the ones I wrote two years ago and they were so funny! My interest and a sense of playfulness come through in the writing. That’s what I loved about my writing. That’s what I’m trying to cultivate when I write in the mornings. I know it’s only fifteen minutes now, the plan is to try and write for an hour before work. Maybe I can shift my exercise to an after-work activity. Run home. I’m really proud of a lot of the old journals. I haven’t felt that way about a journal in a long time, though. None this year stand out, I think. Whether I don’t like them because I’m rushing them or whether I already resent them for taking my time away, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m finding an excuse not to write the journal. The way I’m writing the journal now, just like a couple other aspects of my life at the moment, feels unstable and unsustainable. What does that mean for the future of the journal? And will you get one next week? I don’t know yet. In the week to come, I already know I’m expecting to work overtime on both Saturday and Monday. Friday is a public holiday, but I plan to spend both Friday and the weekend with my girlfriend before she flies to South Africa for a research trip on the following Monday. I won’t see her for five weeks. You can understand, I hope, the desire to pause everything to spend the weekend with her.
It is not lost on me that the journal in which I lament that I haven’t got enough time to write the journal is the longest one I have ever written, though that doesn’t mean it has taken me the longest to write. I’m sorry for the irregularity of the delivery of Jeremy’s Journal, and for its dubious quality of late. Thank you for reading with me so far, and thank you for your patience while I figure out where to go from here. In case you don’t hear from me for a while, know that I am healthy, safe and in good hands.
Glad to hear you are over the flu. No pressure Jem, take time for those unproductive fun moments 😊