In every walk-round on Escape there’s a half hour where I get to sit down in someone else’s kitchen or front room (wherever I won’t be in shot) and mull while the homebuyers ponder the property.
You can get quite a bit done in half an hour. At the moment I’m writing my scripts for this weekend on Radio 3. In half an hour – concentrated – I can knock off three links. But only if concentrated.
Mostly, I doodle.
Or fiddle with photos.
I worry about the (or more accurately, my) drive to productivity. It’s as if there’s a little neural slave driver deep in the folds of my brain who won’t stop cracking a cruel whip. Years of meditation and ayahuasca haven’t managed to dislodge him – yet.
Do I really need to be so sleekly productive? I can never lie in bed snoozing – even at the weekend – and somewhere in the fields of childhood I listened too intently to the voice that said laziness and waste were the two greatest sins.
I guess that’s just the Protestant Work Ethic. Whispering in the inner ear: not enough, make more, never rest.
Oh, that’s what it is…
I’m going to leave my links and photograph lilies.
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