Box sets...

 A blank sheet of paper. No ideas. Just sitting at the dining room table, gone 10.30pm. Half watching a psychological thriller on television when I should really be thinking about going to bed. Box sets. They’re a big problem. I watch one episode and then the next one’s coming up in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3,2,1 seconds and suddenly it’s on and I’m not even watching it, just glimpsing it while writing this pile of poo. 

I’ve got a glass of water on the go. Tap water, three quarters finished. On the psychological thriller I’ve been half watching they can’t stop drinking alcohol. They’re preparing food and drinking wine and they’re all dysfunctional in some way or other: one is 60 and divorced and going out with somebody half her age; her son drinks too much and seems to be having relationship issues and the daughter is, well, the daughter, although she might be a lesbian, I haven’t worked that bit out yet. She probably is a carpet muncher, because these days there has to be one, there’s a quota system, although they haven’t made a big thing of it yet.

Go to bed. Just go to bed. There’s no point staying up, there really isn’t. But I’m up and time is creeping towards 11pm. Ah! The possible lesbo relationship has reared its head again. Confirmation, perhaps, that my suspicions were right. I scratch my lower back, rub my nose with my right hand, admire my new watch and finish the glass of water. I turn to look at the lamp in the corner of the room. We bought it from where? Habitat? Or was it Heal’s? Oh yes, the lesbian lovers are at it, one on top of the other in bed, naked, and I can’t stand it. Why, I ask myself, is it necessary? It’s not at all, just trendy, just the BBC trying to be inclusive. We all know it goes on, but why make a song and dance about it?

Modern life is rubbish. Yes it is. Why is the ‘modern’ version of anything laden with graffiti, rap and sexual deviance? You know what I mean? A modern version of a Shakespeare play has to feature a gay person (or persons) and everybody speaks with a London accent, a cockney accent perhaps, but the whole thing has to be ‘of the street’. Why? There’s no answers to these questions and no point in asking them in the first place. It’s 10.55pm and the trailer for the next episode of the box set is playing. Any minute now the next episode with count down, but the TV’s been switched off. “I could sit here and watch all six, but I really can’t,” says my wife. No, and nor can I. I’ve got to work in the morning so I’d better wrap this up too, this writing thing I’ve embarked upon. How many paragraphs have I written? Hold on while I scroll up to find out: four paragraphs and 502 words; well, more now, obviously. 

If I don’t go to bed now I’ll regret it. 

I did go to bed and now it’s a few days later and I’m listening to Chopin. It’s a Saturday morning, 0636hrs to be precise - and I’m only precise because there’s a clock on my lap top - and I’m drinking tea, I’ve taken a multivitamin pill, which I’m beginning to doubt is doing me any good. I’m only taking it for one reason: I’m trying to be like I used to be and by that I mean more fired-up, more alive, more responsive, more energetic, more positive and not so slobby and dreary. It bothers me. Well, it’s started to bother me and for no particular reason. Perhaps all I need is an early night. I tend not to hit the sack until around 11pm, sometimes later and then, like now, I get up at 0600hrs. I find myself falling asleep during the day and I put that down to cycling. It doesn’t happen during the week, but at weekends, put me in an armchair after a ride and I’ll nod off. But I worry about the pills and whether they’re any good for me. Perhaps they just give me something else to fret about, which I don’t need. It might well be that simple: get to bed early, don’t sit around watching crap on television, eat well and don’t moan about stuff. 

I was talking about a box set at the start of this essay, if that’s what it is; perhaps it’s an article or a ‘feature’, what’s the difference? Perhaps an essay sets out to answer a question, so it’s not an essay, there’s no question or statement followed by the word ‘discuss’. Although I could go back and write a question that fits in with what I’ve been writing, but that would be futile and pathetic. I need to get to bed earlier, perhaps I’ll start from tonight, watch Strictly Come Dancing - it’s Blackpool tonight - and then read for a bit and then get up those wooden stairs (or steps) to Bedfordshire, as dad used to say. 

But I digress, that box set. You know what? It wasn’t really worth staying up for, nothing is that good in the same way that nothing is that funny. I’ve got a tee-shirt with that written on it: Nothing is that funny. There used to be a guy in the office who laughed uncontrollably about nothing in particular. Wheezing, coughing laughter over something trivial and unfunny. We all rolled our eyes whenever it became audible, which was often.

Time is rolling round to 0700hrs and I need to make a flask of hot water, grab some teabags, find some socks and wrap up warm for a ride on the bike. Outside, according to my iphone, it’s cloudy and 4 degrees, but there’s no rain, which means I’ll avoid a soaking.