Doing Nothing

I had such a good day yesterday: I met some really great students and staff at Liverpool John Moores University, and enjoyed myself enormously giving them a talk about madness and literature. Then, in the evening, I headed down to Mold to the History Society and took down the minutes. That was good too.

Today I was supposed to be editing my Patagonia book, but somehow I didn't manage to even open my laptop. I went to aerobics, and then...well, I have a hard time working out exactly what I did. It seems like I did nothing. I didn't read a book, I didn't write anything, all I did was answer the phone a couple of times and fill in a form. Time went by and I sat there like the man without the face in the Murakami novel. Just being. My heart beating in time with some distant clock, second after second, minute after minute.