This is my hard time

-Theodore Roethke


The mornings I can cope with. Just. Not grabbing my phone before my feet hit the floor is difficult, but not impossible.

Ditto the frying of eggs without John Humphrys. (I’ve just realised that sentence looks ludicrous. How on earth did I put up with it for so long?) Even the management of ‘the break’, a key Twitter-space in any day’s work, is bearable if you plan ahead and remove all distractions.

The killer times are right now. When I’m tired, after the work is done, and the emails sent. What then? Too tired to read if I am honest. There’s a brand new book of another missing poet about two yards away, but I haven’t the energy.

I admit it, I almost went on. I am desperate to find out -what, exactly? I am actually desperate to find out nothing. The major news of the last week is coursing through my veins with what I can only call grief. I don’t need Twitter to tell me how to feel about it, or to reassure me that X shares my views exactly. Nevertheless, it was close. A click away. I wanted (want) that sugar cube of satisfaction-distraction, telling me what I already know, and sending me news of something suddenly vital and exciting and which I was not looking for.

But I don’t. I sit on my hands, willing the itching to stop.