There is an hour at the end of Sunday that has a particular weather of its own, and I have spent years trying to do something about it.
You will know it if you have it. Nothing is actually wrong. The light goes. The week stands up at the far end of the room and looks at you. Somewhere around six o’clock a small dread arrives, without luggage, and sits down.
Things that have not helped
- Planning the entire week in a spreadsheet.
- Opening my email to get ahead of it.
- Telling myself not to be silly.
Things that have
- Cooking something that takes a long time and needs little attention.
- Laying out tomorrow’s clothes, which takes four minutes and shuts up one specific worry.
- Walking to the harbour wall and back as it gets dark.
- Writing down the three things that have to happen on Monday, and then closing the notebook.
Most of the dread is the week arriving all at once. It will actually come one day at a time.
I have not cured it, and I no longer expect to. I have come to think of it as a kind of tide, and it comes in and goes out without needing my opinion. All I can do is put the kettle on and wait for it to turn, and by about nine o’clock it usually has.
Sample content for The Pixel, a fictional personal blog.
