Solitude and Irony. Attempt #1.

“I often find it very difficult to write when surrounded by people.

I don’t mean the type of crowd that surrounds you when you’re out in coffee shops and cafés. I mean the type of people that surround you on a day to day basis at home.

It can often be almost impossible to write in this variably busy environment. The hustle and bustle of family members can often grate or distract from whatever I’m doing and take my attention away elsewhere, causing me to seek a creative refuge upstairs in a scurrying hermetic fashion akin to hamstery goodness.

The solitude helps, and can allow one to focus for the ten minutes or so needed to apply yourself to concentrate and immerse yourself on whatever it is that you mean to do.

Often it seems that only then can I actually bring myself to subconsciously tell everything else to bugger off and let myself work in peace.

It’s actually taken a little longer than I had intended to write this post, since I’m currently sat in the kitchen whilst family members act around me with all the noise that you’d expect of the washing machine, the redistribution of tins in the cupboard, the fiddling of cutlery and…

[…and the inevitable conversation that comes with the distraction away from whatever I’m trying to write.]

Sadly, just taking the medium of the laptop to quiet locales doesn’t help. The ever-present creature of wi-fi sits in the corner of your screen, putting images and compulsions into the back of your mind, constantly beckoning you to scroll through Tumblr or Facebook for the next twenty minutes.

All you want to do is type and type and type, throwing yourself into the story that you’ve spent that last week procrastinating over.

Even now I’m being indirectly called into a conversation.

[Which I joined after being called out to.]

Right now I am glad for the washing machine, else misophonia would-”

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That’s where I had to stop writing, at 2055, to go down to the local store to pick up some things. Here I am at 2231 carrying on with the blog post. It should have only taken me twentyish minutes to get the items and return (which it took, more or less), but fifteen minutes after my return home it’s brought to my attention that I’d forgotten milk.

So off I go again, knowing that I couldn’t go to the furthest store because in those five to seven minutes that it’d take to get there it’d be closed. All the other stores but two were closed at this point, so I sought to go to the superstore, which may have been open.

I didn’t hold my breath.

Imagine the wonder as I turn the corner to see the lights of the supermarket still open!

Imagine the dim hatred of the moment where, as I approach, the shutters begin the horribly slow, clattering closure, hiding the hopeful light of wonder away from me and, with it, the much sought after and holiest of milk.

Still! The garage nearby was open! And as I approached it the lone attendant came through the doors to tell me that the store was closing. Closing! I was on the threshold of the door and he, clipboard in hand, was closing the store!

Although it must be said that he was very kind and let me pick up the godsdamned milk.

Ten minutes later and I return home, and guess what I discovered?

Yeah. My waistcoat was inside out for the entire second trip.

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