Easy Like Sunday Morning?

Yesterday was one of those beautiful February days that hinted of spring, teasing the weary soul, beleaguered by months of short days and long nights, with a taste of what is only a matter of weeks away. I think the rest of the country had snow, again, but for some reason down here on this stretch of the south coast I could almost feel the world starting to ease open bleary eyes, looking to see if it was time to get up yet.

Today that door was slammed firmly shut, so hard the frame shuddered, as if someone had accidentally left the door to spring open and Mother Nature wasn’t too happy about having to close it again. I woke to see gloom and hard rain, a cruel reminder that we are in fact still well within the clutches of a long, cold winter and will be for a while yet.

The wind howled and rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the windowpanes so I thought that this particular Sunday morning would be a good time to get stuck into some writing. But before I did I had to go outside to fasten the cover back down over my bike because the wind had blown it off and when I did I discovered that as well as being miserable out there it was colder than it looked too. Further proof, if I needed any, that today was a day best spent indoors.

Back inside I had a brief, tricky tussle with the curse of procrastination but my determination to write won through – for once – and I found myself sat behind my keyboard ready to go. I decided to finish the review of District 9 for the Taco Cart site so I opened the file, took out some notes and glanced out of the window. My view of the more than mildly pissed off looking sea was obscured by the rainwater that ran down the pane but it wasn’t long before I saw them.

Runners.

Only a few at first but they quickly multiplied until they streamed past in droves. It took a few seconds before I realised that they had numbers pinned to their fronts and the sudden torrent of lunatics flowing along the seafront were part of an organised race.

Now there are many ways I could spend a wretched Sunday morning in February and running up and down Brighton seafront in shorts on a thoroughly horrible day at the back end of winter isn’t one of them. Wouldn’t even make the long list, let alone the short one. Don’t get me wrong I’m not knocking it, my dad is one of those people who finds running for miles on end in all weather a great way to spend his spare time - even nowadays in his late fifties - and if that floats your boat then that’s fine but I’m afraid I can’t see the appeal.

I watched as they passed and as with most races the frontrunners looked okay, driving along at an admirable pace, coming across like they do that sort of thing regularly and at least semi-professionally. The pace and technique swiftly diminished as the crowd thickened but on the first lap what these later runners lacked in ability they made up for with enthusiasm.

By the second lap though things had changed.

The well of enthusiasm had rapidly run dry for the majority as they shambled past with bright red legs, blasted numb by the wind and rain and bearing expressions of the painfully bewildered. By the final lap it was as though the word enthusiasm had never been invented. Many people had given up the ghost and had reduced their speed to a saunter while some of the competitors had resorted to doing that thing that resembles running but in truth qualifies as animated walking. You’ve probably seen ‘joggers’ doing it where the movement of the shoulders intimate that they’re running but in reality they’re moving along at no more than a brisk walking pace with their feet never leaving the ground at the same time.

Race finally over the damp and exhausted participants made their way back towards wherever they came, grasping their silver foil blankets in an attempt to ward off the dreadful conditions while looking like extras in a low budget sci-fi film. Not one of their faces bore anything other than a look of pained relief and I couldn’t see for the life of me how what they’d just put themselves through could be perceived as anything other than utterly horrific.

I think my displeasure for running, especially on days like this, comes from my experiences as a youngster, forced to do cross country races each January at school. When I had to do my first I was twelve and I had absolutely no intention of trying to win it, so when I crossed the finish line first I think I was as surprised as my PE teacher. My sole objective had been to get the whole episode of unpleasantness behind me as quickly as possible and if that meant running the whole course then so be it, anything to get out of cold and drizzle and back into the warm changing rooms as fast as I could. I only won by complete accident.

Now it may come as a surprise to some of you to hear that I used to win these races, but before I became the slothful thirtysomething you see before you I was a good runner believe it or not. I can honestly say though that the only part of running I’ve ever taken pleasure in is being able to stop. As a young metalhead in the 1980s I spent a lot of time running away from things, mainly getting beaten up by our less tolerant human brethren so for me running was a necessity, nothing more and hardly gratifying. The notion of going out running for fun is an alien concept to me.

As far as I’m concerned to go out and enjoy running in that today you’d have to be at least two parts mad and one part masochist. While I have been known to have had the odd flirtation with insanity, I think I’ll leave masochism to emos and German porn stars.

The Curse of... erm

I’m absolutely convinced if I could ever get myself into a prolonged state of motivation, I could be dangerous. In what way or to whom I couldn’t tell you but I’d like to imagine it would be a world domination kind of dangerous, given half a chance.

And therein lies the problem, I doubt I’ll ever get the chance. This is because I suffer from an affliction that holds back any long-lasting productivity, a malady that points creative energy away from the meaningful and into pointless or menial tasks.

I’m talking of course about the curse of procrastination.

Even now I’m fighting the urge to get up from behind the keyboard and go and make another cup of tea or have a quick nosy out of the window. I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m writing but in my peripheral vision I can see my bass guitar sitting up brightly, winking at me. If I listen carefully I can almost hear it saying, "come and play me for a while, it’ll help relax your mind and give you ideas to write about."

I resist though and stay put in my seat, although now I come to think of it I am beginning to get a bit thirsty and that cup of tea idea is becoming more tempting by the minute. Oh sod it, I need more liquid…

You see what I mean? It is now ten minutes later and I’ve made more tea and twatted about on the guitar. Okay so the tea does help me focus, albeit briefly, and I suppose that playing the guitar for a bit is semi-productive, but it’s still an example of my innate inability to stick to the task at hand. Sometimes I find that I start something, get distracted, start something else, then another thing and by the time I realise where I am I’m falling over things I’ve started and forgotten about.

Even when I do get off the blocks and start to achieve a smidgeon of momentum the curse of procrastination is still there. No sooner have I got the creative juices flowing I suddenly feel that I should reward my good work by going off and having a faff. Facebook is a nightmare tool of procrastination too. I dread to think how many blog entries, short stories or hours of bass practice I could have put in if I didn’t suffer the irresistible draw of status updates, absurd random groups and all the other endless forms of meaningless diversion Facebook has to offer.

I wish my mind could conjure up ideas for stories as prolifically as it finds ways to avoid being creative, I’d be the new Stephen King goddamn it. I’ve got friends who have the amazing ability to limit the amount of procrastination they allow themselves and they achieve fantastic things. If only I could capture their sense of focus and call it Eau de Action or something equally ridiculous, but even then I’d probably lose the bottle whilst reorganising my shelves rather than drafting that short story I had an idea for on the way home.

You could suffer from it too. It’s a common ailment so even if it doesn’t affect you it probably affects someone you’re close to. Ever had a great idea or the inspiration to go and get cracking with something productive or creative only to find yourself cleaning the bathroom? And not just cleaning it, getting stuck into all the really horrible bits that you avoid under normal circumstances? And while you’re there cleaning around the back of the toilet are you subconsciously planning ways to reorganise the kitchen, but only after you’ve given it a deep clean of course?

The curse of procrastination strikes again. Beware.