Waiting

[desperance]

Ah, waiting. I am known to dislike this aspect of existence; I have probably spoken of it before. Not that I can't be patient (hey, I'm a writer; patience is in the job description, filed under 'endurance vile, beyond all that is reasonable to ask'), I just hate waiting. This. Being in the house and having to be here, until somebody else makes something happen. If you take away my permission to leave, then I'm instantly trapped and futile and helpless, desperate to get out of here and utterly unable to do anything useful.

As, for example, I could be downstairs reading & editing the book, as I need to be. I'm not. I'm up here, grumbling and pacing and peering out of windows, waiting for a big lorry to arrive.

It's supposed to be bringing insulation for my roofspace, and the people to fit it. My dreads are:

a) that it won't come;

b) that it will come, but they won't be able to do the work, because of [insert reason here] that will be

c) My Fault

and so they go away again, thereby causing Hassle and Delay and a whole nother round of Waiting.

Oh, and

d) the cat will get out. Onto the main road, where lorries are.

Pace, fret, fidget. Also, I'm hungry; but I can't eat when I'm waiting. It's a neurosis: that catastrophic certainty that I'll be one mouthful in and the door will knock, and then there'll be troops of people in & out and either the food will get cold or I'll have to just sit and eat in front of strangers who are not eating, and I'm psychologically incapable of that.

So I'm thinking tom yam soup with cellophane noodles and prawns and spring greens and green beans and celery and cucumber (I have a lot of green things just now) and spring onion and garlic and chilli and shallot - and I can't do anything about it, just think. And pace, and fret.

What mess am I?

Comments

[spaceoperadiva.livejournal.com]

Pet-pet, you and the cat. I hate workers coming to the house. Fortunately we're rabid DIY people so that doesn't happen too often. Some things are beyond the scope even of rabid DIY people though and then one has to put up with people in the house with all the "please don't put your greasy toolbelt on my tablecloth and omfg, don't let the cats out, do you not see that we live on a very busy street and we don't like the furries to get flattened?" stuff.

Voodoo hexes of hurrying up insulation guys to you.

[desperance.livejournal.com]

Thank you for understanding; I thought I was alone, and neurotic, and so on. I hate workers coming to the house, and I am rabidly un-DIY, so really can't prevent it.

But bless all your voodoo hexes, they did the thing: men came, disappeared into loft with great yellow bags of fluff, and I kept the cat shut up in the kitchen (to his great outrage), and eventually the men left again, after handing me three ancient golf clubs (and I do mean ancient - 1920s, perhaps? Something like that) and a couple of 19th-century books that they'd found in the filth up there. Now I am waiting to see if my house gets warmer...