Is It Wine O’Clock Yet?

I used to get excited. You know, the butterflies in your stomach. Fun times ahead: an accomplishment, a job promotion, a holiday. Even just getting to Friday, coming home from work, pouring a chilled glass of white wine and luxuriating in the weekend ahead.

Now, it takes more than a weekend off. Officially, I’m not working, but I have a multitude of projects on the go. I could shrug them all off, say, “Bugger that,” and sit here drinking wine while binge watching the next box set.

But today, I felt that excitement again.

What caused it, you ask? Was it a royal messenger arriving to announce there had been a mix up at the hospital and I was really next in line to the throne?

Nope.

It was the installation of our new bedroom window.

Our builder and glazier, Andrew, is a lovely chap. Rough and tough in every way, with tattoos covering his arms and even creeping up his neck, he has a lovely Scottish lilt to his voice. He’s from darkest Scotland, Elgin to be precise, although he has now lived in Cheshire longer than he ever lived north of the border.

Andrew was recently diagnosed with MS. He has refused medication because of the potential risks involved. He’s still healthy, although the hot weather isn’t doing him any favours, and he remains a ball of energy.

He has plans.

He’s still working and squirrelling away money, with the intention of eventually relocating somewhere with a more temperate climate and a lower cost of living. He’s adapted his diet and lifestyle, and he’s thriving. He also installed a window on the top floor of our three storey house and remained remarkably chipper throughout, although the country and western music pumping out of his radio did begin to wear a little thin.

My excitement came from two things.

First, having a new window that wasn’t dangerously close to literally falling out of the wall.

Second, having such a motivated and positive person within my orbit.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to be around people, within speaking distance of someone with whom I can have a natter and shoot the breeze. When I was working, I took that for granted. I became exhausted by people and relished a little downtime.

Now, I want a little cut and thrust. Or perhaps just a little more thrust.

I was speaking to an author who waxed lyrical about squirrelling himself away in his office for hours at a time to write. I like that, obviously, but I also need people around me. When I’m battling with a story and belting it out, I’m perfectly happy amusing myself with my own genius. Hey! it’s my Substack. I’m allowed to toot my own horn.

But once the words are on the page, I suppose I’m like a typical man. Once you’ve climaxed, you want to propel yourself as far away from the deed as possible.

Editing is like revisiting the damp patch on the bed. You know you caused it, but you have no desire to be reminded of it.

I need to be around other people and hear their stories so that I can feel inspired and excited. There’s nothing quite like spending time with wonderful people who have lived a life and still have so much more living to do.

But writing this is really just another way of avoiding editing.

At the moment, if a magic genie appeared and offered me one wish, I’d wish for someone else to bloody do it. Editing seems to take twice as long as writing the thing in the first place.

At least with podcast and radio editing, there are buttons to press and knobs to twiddle until everything sounds reasonably okay.

Hey ho. Is it wine o’clock yet?

Bugger. It’s only Tuesday!

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