I always feel all of a muddle the days the clock goes back. If  it’s  quarter to one now but it was quarter to two 24 hours ago does that mean that I  should have ate my lunch an hour ago because that is when I would have been hungry yesterday? And if society is allowed to faff about with the communal clock isn’t it time we all gave up the whole twenty four hour thing and starting living according to our internal clocks? The one that says Alison May you won’t be truly hungry until about half past three so eat then and stop worrying that you will miss your lunch…

No I don’t know what I’m talking about either.

It is Sunday afternoon. My little boy has been daddy-napped and there is dust under the blanket box I don’t feel like shifting. Dream sequences from last nights turbulent slumber still fill my mind and I’ve had five cups of tea so far already, the kettle once again calling out my name.

Some days have no shape at all do they? No reason to them and so we are faced with the challenge of lining them with purpose and treading their dirty waters. Some days I feel so terribly obliged to fill the hours between yawning emptiness and a shivery bedtime with all manner of worthy deeds and jobs ticked off life’s long to do list- when all I really want  do is  waste  away an afternoon on an engaging story and a tin pot full of scalding coffee.

And therein lies the rub.

Waste. Waste away an afternoon I say. Because satisfying my authentic need to do nothing other than fill my mind with someone else’s story make’s me feel like a domestic deviant. A lazy good for nothing slob, all piggy toes and dressing gowns, piles of  words absorbed and quickly forgotten and a rising stack  of clothes I’d rather throw away than iron. And yet, and yet, and yet: if the day is our own, if time can be so spectacularly fiddled with, if obligation exist nowhere else but in our own minds, and if something call’s to us louder than scrubbing the kitchen floors does, where , pray tell, lies the waste? No-one owns our life but us.

So what if instead we think of it as re-fuelling our batteries?  What if today we make wearing sloth into something scrumptiously appealing? Taking an afternoon bath and slipping into something snuggly warm from the radiator? What if we shove guilt into the backyard and pretend we are Nigella Lawson and thus couldn’t give a flying fig-roll about the guilt society associates with  self-indulgence,  embracing yummy gooi-ness and unadulterated, sugar coated pleasure?

Yes please is what I say today. Yes to all manner of waste and vice. Because there is always tomorrow and if there isn’t then we will fly to heaven safe in the knowledge that time makes no sense at all and we only waste it when we force ourselves to endure what today our entire souls are refusing…