Since returning from London at the end of January, my weekends have taken on a familiar pattern. One that involves physical labour around Rochdene.
The pattern is necessary for a couple of reasons: things need doing (they bug me); I need to be busy.
Both, I admit, are deep psychological problems (the unexamined life is not worth living remember).
The first one started as soon as we returned home - I see loads of things that need doing around the place and save them up for my weekends. Stuff like painting the house, building pergolas, hanging sails. Then there are the smaller items like hedges that need trimming, an unfinished garden seat, gardens that need taming, mess that needs tidying (I've lost count of how many times I've sorted out the garage frinstance)...you get the idea.
All week I make a mental list of chores and then spend the weekend ticking them off. I'm driven. I'm focused. I'm nuts.
Result: stuff gets done but I don't relax (which for me means reading while drinking tea in Abbey Road Three).
Second one - the need to be busy. I can blame SWMBO a little here. She can't sit still. After thirty three years of marriage that's bound to rub off a tad.
But I'd be lying if I was to leave the impression that I'm not to blame. The puritan work ethic is alive and well inside my core being. Once I get started on a project I can't stop until it's done. It's the way I roll baby!
Next weekend is Easter break and apart from a trip to see Jade in Palmerston North, I should get started on the next project - a garage for the horse float.
Now, where did I put my concrete mixer?
Love and peace - Wozza