Sporting occasions are bad. Or the Corbyn result, that was hard. I seem to remember (no one else does) a particularly funny tweet from the last Rugby World Cup, about the Canadian’s team’s beards. I desperately wanted to reprise it, including my ingenious hashtag. But no.
The opening ceremony was a gift. A bit like the Eurovision Song Contest. (Only not.) And the terrible truth about that event is that I don’t remember a single thing about it. Not one thing. Tweeted it the whole night. And now that’s all there is, a hole. It’s like I was never there. Not present at all.
Or Chelsea actually winning a game. Against Arsenal. Can you imagine it? I couldn’t. (The fact that I went out and did something else is irrelevant.) It was the old urge, on finding out, to taunt a few people, including the Chelsea team itself. It is my own particular addition to the genre, I like to think. (Listen to him: what an eejit.)
Or I seem to remember someone in the Department for Education saying Something Important About Testing. A minority interest, I grant you, but I so wanted to hit the button next to the man’s face, just so I could show how right-on I was. Am. Think I am.
Harder still is the amazing work of colleagues and peers (they know who they are) whose work online continues to send light into the day (albeit at very scheduled times). I hope they know.
But mostly it’s the random silly stuff and set-piece National Events that I miss. Or what Catherine Fox says about them.
Instead, I… Instead I have conversations. I look out of the window. I sit in silence. I make a lot of hot drinks. I talk to people. I make lists, tidy my desk, read, then collapse. The silence is already doing something to my brain. It’s kind of in the middle between pleasure and pain, a bit like the chill air greeting you on the first morning run or bike ride. It’s taking some getting used to, but I am finally getting to enjoy it. A bit. Not quite getting used to it. Doing Nothing. Nothing doing. Being. Being me. Here, not there. Now. Not then.