Sunday. Dusty Sunday.

After church this morning, I came home and looked at my dirty house. It's really getting bad, Ms J. There's mud on the floor by the front door, a reminder of my garden work last week. The kitchen floor needs vacuuming. So do the rooms upstairs. I have dust bunnies nearly as big as Buicks under my bed. The bathroom is filthy. I'm aware of it all, but I just can't find the motivation required to address it.

I've been spending so much time writing and rehearsing this play, that when I'm home I don't want to do housework. I used to be so fastidious. I used to keep a very tidy home, and I suppose I will again, but I've been so busy lately.

Is this a cop-out, Ms J? Am I making excuses for my indolence?

It's in times like this when I see the benefits in living alone.

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