Wild

I’m stuck in my own personal version of the Groundhog Day movie.

I wake every day to cats meowing and/or scratching at my bedroom door. They sound pissed off.

Half awake, my first thoughts are that I don’t want to wake up, and that I don’t want to get up.

Next, I struggle to remember what day it is. It often seems to be Saturday, which means I have no real reason to get up—there are no pressing demands on my time, after I feed the cats.

The cats are still complaining, and I’ve noticed that I need the loo, so I do get up. While I’m sitting on the toilet, the three cats thread around my feet, competing for attention. Occasionally they bite me, or each other. I pat and scratch and discipline (by scruffing), as required.

I feed the cats while the kettle boils for my first morning coffee. I take it with me and head back to bed.

Now, it’s decision time. What will I do with my ‘one wild and precious life’ today?

The predictable choices are laid out before me: laptop, phone, notebooks, books.

Healthier choices nag at me too: I should go for a walk; I ought to mow the grass; what about finally cleaning the shower, today? or digging out the dusty vacuum cleaner?

If I choose the laptop, I could stream a show, do some writing, do some volunteer proofreading.

On the phone, I could read my current e-book, play a mindless game like solitaire, check for notifications.

The notebooks: one’s for writing, the other my ‘to do’ lists.

Books: there’s a huge stack on my bedside table, more jumbled beside me on the bed, but let’s face it, I pretty much never choose that option.

The laptop or the phone usually win, like today. But because I’ve chosen to write, rather than starting the day with a more passive activity, I feel pretty good about myself.