I could tell you I’ve been busy with meaningful things—the kind of tasks that fill a life with purpose and tick all the right boxes. But once again, I have yet to post anything. But the truth? The truth is far less impressive.
Take, for instance, The Quest for Perfect Coffee. This noble pursuit had been ongoing since—well, forever. Now, every morning, it’s me, a Flying Start coffee bag, a Starbucks pod, and the near-perfect cup of coffee I’ve finally managed to master. It’s not perfect, of course, but it’s close enough to keep me coming back to the ritual. Still, this is hardly an excuse. It’s more like background noise—a steady hum that accompanies the real culprits.
Let me introduce you to The Great Pen Sorting Incident. What began as a casual desk tidy quickly spiralled into something resembling an archaeological dig—minus the sand and ancient treasures. I unearthed pens I didn’t even remember owning, each one insisting on a test drive like a forgotten car demanding to be taken for a spin. Hours vanished in a haze of scribbled lines, doodles, and an oddly satisfying sense of chaos. By the time I’d finished, I had eight working pens, an alphabetised pile of notebooks, and a vague feeling that I’d just invented a new form of procrastination. The blog? Forgotten amidst the stationery carnage.
Then there’s A Novel That’s Nowhere, a tale as old as… me. I’ve spent more time thinking about the book than writing it. I’ve pictured the cover, imagined the author bio (charmingly self-deprecating, naturally), and even rehearsed a few lines for the hypothetical interviews. What I haven’t done is write the first chapter. Or even decide on a proper title. If overthinking were a sport, I’d be the reigning champion. And yes, I’ve considered the irony of failing to write a blog post because I’m busy failing to write a novel.
Finally, there’s Taming the Garden Jungle. One sunny morning, I decided enough was enough. The brambles had staged a coup, and it was time to reclaim the territory. Armed with gloves, shears, and an optimism that can only be described as misplaced, I ventured out. Three hours later, after a few coffees and too much time watching YouTube videos, I’d defeated precisely one stubborn bramble and christened the garden a “wildlife sanctuary.” Nature, I decided, could keep its chaos—at least for another day.
These distractions deserve their own entries. They’re certainly more interesting than this excuse for neglecting the blog. And who knows? Maybe next time I’ll actually write them. But for now, let’s call this a truce between me and A Prosaic Life.
Postscript: I have decided to write about The Great Pen Sorting Incident—it will now be called The Lost Art of Fiddling. It is less about the pens and more about tinkering in general.