One moment, everything’s lively—I’m wandering through the house with the oldest kid and his friends while my wife fusses over a manual juicer he snagged from a car boot sale.
“What’s going on?” I ask, a bit confused.
“We’re playing juice,” the oldest replies, pointing to the worktop covered with 20 halved oranges and a glass with just an inch of juice.
“Is it working at all?” I inquire.
“Sort of,” chimes in the middle child.
“Maybe I got the wrong type of orange,” my wife muses aloud.
“Did you buy any wax?” I ask, half-joking.
Cut to 12 hours later, and I find myself alone. My wife had to catch a train to Dorset to visit friends, and everyone else is already out. The house feels so empty. The pets, sprawled on the kitchen floor, track my every move. I can’t recall the last time I was in this space, maybe over a year ago.
I don’t really mind the solitude, but let’s be honest—I’m not great at it. Within 45 minutes, I’m talking to myself. Before you know it, I’m eating with my hands, which doesn’t seem ideal.
When there’s a time limit, though, another issue arises—I struggle to figure out how to pass the time. Sitting in my office shed, I realize I’m stuck in indecision.
It’s not like I don’t have options; there’s a mountain of things I could tackle—tax papers, overdue home repairs, unanswered emails, and more. I finally managed to clean my office—that’s been on hold for three years. I could also cut the grass, but honestly, I’m not sure I trust myself with that job.
Stepping out of the office, I trudge across the overgrown grass and peer around the kitchen. The pets raise their heads as if to say, “What’s next?”
I think we might need a long-term fix for the dishwasher issue—it’s been acting up. I can only get it to work if I tape the door shut.
“That’s a long-term solution in some sense,” I tell myself, “since I have a lot of packing tape.” The new dog wags its tail against the floor in what seems like agreement.
“I’m not talking to you,” I clarify aloud, “but I do wonder why my problems aren’t getting smarter.”
“Miaow,” the cat chimes in.
“No discussion here,” I respond. “I was just thinking.”
I could take a bath, read some books from my book group, or finish one of the five Scandinavian drama series I have started. I could remind myself to go back to my office and actually accomplish some work, but here I am, staring at the clock—it’s Tuesday at 3 PM. But what’s my excuse? It’s tough to do anything when there’s no one to make requests of me.
The old dog stands by my feet, then sneezes and, well, pees.
“Fantastic,” I mumble, picking him up and carrying him outside.
After cleaning up the mess, I sit back at my desk, banjo in hand but not playing, and watch the global financial index drop dramatically. This is my new pastime—a ringside seat at what feels like the end of the world.
My language app messages me, suggesting it might be a good time for some Italian lessons.
“Two years have gone by,” I say to myself.
An email from the accountant reminds me I still need to get my tax documents in order.
“Hmm,” I mutter. “No pressure.”
Meanwhile, my wife sends me a picture of four seedlings she found at a garden sale.
“Do you want these?” she asks in her text.
“What are they?” I reply, curious.
“Some sort of bean,” she responds.
“Yes, please,” I say. Then there’s a pause. On my screen, various financial indicators dive in unison.
“Sorry, I’ve already left,” comes her next message.
I think about planting those seedlings, rushing to the fish shop before it closes, or maybe doing some back stretches. Suddenly, the new dog pokes its head in and yawns.
“I’m actually in the middle of something,” I explain.
The dog struts in, nudging my elbow.
“We can go for a walk right away,” I say, “but as I mentioned earlier, I’m a busy man and…”
“Miaow,” interrupts the cat from the doorway.
“This is my time,” I insist.
