The magazine on my lap was purchased on Friday evening on my way home from work. It is representative of a tradition I like to observe, one which sees me trawling the racks at WHSmith on a Friday night in Charing Cross station, looking for something to read over the weekend.
The weekend. My 48 hours. Indulgence. An opportunity to stop writing and read someone else’s efforts.
So why, exactly as this magazine gone unread for most of the weekend? I’m not entirely sure.
A bit of me wonders whether I’m more in love with the idea of sluffing down on the sofa with a large glass of wine and a magazine than actually doing so.
It’s not that. I realise that now, this evening. Sunday evening. 48 hours after I purchased the magazine.
It’s more that I’m so easily distracted. I have lost count of the number of times I have grabbed hold of the magazine I bought, positioned it on my lap fully intending to read it, only to be distracted by something else – usually internet related – which ended up stopping me from opening the cover.
That’s just weird. Isn’t it?