"There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn’t be cured of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day."--Katherine Mansfield, “At the Bay”

Monday was a bank holiday: no office, no pub, no pressure to do anything. I napped and read all day. If I wasn’t reading or napping, I was lying on the floor in the sitting room, staring at the ceiling. (I know, how exciting!) I should do that more often, as a form of self-care. No mobiles, no news, no notifications. Here, a body, attuned to the conscious rhythm of her breathing (and the occasional canine tongue in her ear, checking to see if she's alive); too often, I realise I’m holding my breath.

I was supposed to go to a party last Sunday. The host, my novelist friend, had invited mutual friends from Galway and a few poets and novelists from the Irish literary scene. (One of them, I was informed, had attended the housewarming party at Sally Rooney’s newly purchased, multi-million-euro house the other week.) Guests were expected to bring something to read, as if a party was a literary festival. Like, c'mon, that's work! Apparently someone read a poem she had written about robots fucking or fucking robots, god knows; it took her all week to compose it.

I couldn’t be bothered to attend. Why travel for three hours to perform and feel nervous about not having written a thing all year and drink too much wine, and then travel back, hungover, on a bank holiday Monday? Not seeing anyone, not performing, not responding, just doing nothing: perfect.

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