Two buses to Ripon

Far too much of my time is spent on, or waiting for, buses. Until recently, I couldn’t even read on a bus without feeling sick, but somehow I seem to have got round that by closing my eyes when we grind to a halt or go round corners.  I still can’t write on a bus though, which given my pitifully sporadic output is a serious shortcoming. For about five minutes, I toyed with the idea of a pretend phonecall, to allow me to record notes and snippets using the voice function on my MP3 player, then I realised I’d probably sound like less of a nutter if I just got the MP3 player out and started speaking into it. Needless to say, I haven’t yet.

I did try recording ideas and passages while I was washing up, to be typed up later, but with the long pauses and the distracting clink of crockery it wasn’t that successful. My next plan was to record while I was on my exercise bike; usually I either read a book or watch a DVD while I’m cycling, I find it distracts me from the tedium of the static scenery, and the worrying realisation that I’m unfit and nearly 30, never a good combination.  Unfortunately breathlessness, while something of a prerequisite in the sphere of romantic heroines, can be a hindrance for this sort of thing.

Ironing is a peaceful, mindless pastime that lends itself admirably to the contemplation of tangled plots and the honing of polished paragraphs, but if I only worked while I was ironing, I’d be down to a thousand words a decade.  If only I didn’t waste so much time on unnecessary activities, like reading the Education Guardian. Or writing a blog.


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