Not Minding My Own Business
Posted by Dirck on 16 February, 2016
But first, with reference to the last entry: I did indeed come very close to dying of my labours, John Henry-style. Too many garbage bags of things that didn’t meet the “We really must hang onto this” criteria for one week’s garbage-removal support system; the usual single bag of kitchen trash had to wait until the Monday morning collection to go out, rather than getting taken out on Sunday night.
However, it wasn’t all picks, shovels, and vacuum cleaners. I also started on a fresh story, once I finished the schlepping, and between a bout on Friday afternoon and a little effort last night after dinner, there are now twenty-six pages of “The Mermaid’s Husband” (which I just now discovered was used as a title by none other than Lord Dunsany himself— I may have to rethink it). What I could accomplish if left to do as I pleased on any given week-day!
There were also pens seen to during the Great Fling, and it is on this that the title of this entry hangs. My plan was to drop off two parcels at the post office, and then back to The Regular Job to get more writing done. I had glanced at my email this morning, which showed that payment had been made… but by not paying attention and opening one of those emails until I was ready to send along the parcel’s tracking number, I missed a request to please not send the thing until 1 March, as the client was travelling.
Poo. After apologizing, for I could do little else, I went on to the other client to give them their tracking number… and found that by not paying attention at the post office, I missed on the clerk there rather mis-entering the postal code, consigning the parcel to the west coast rather than Quebec– something like intending to go to the attic and heading for the cellar. Phone calls suggest the problem is fixed… we think… probably, and the worst outcome is an undeliverable parcel comes back to me and then heads off in the right direction. I have, though, had finer days.
Apart from the possibility of having to pay a second dose of postage, I found that my nerves were too jangled to usefully turn my hand to the new story. My mind was not on that business either, and thus am I penalized for not minding my business.
PS– as a sop to my vanity, I will mention that I at least trimmed the diaphragms properly in the Vacumatics that are rushing towards an empty house, unlike the fellow who “refitted” one of them before selling it to the client. So there.