I read once that a person should sporadically spend three days indoors, in one's own dwelling, without stepping outside before emerging empowered to see the world anew at its end.
I tried it today, one third of the allotted time. I hung curtains. I cooked a healthy dinner of fish and vegetables, the dregs at the back of the freezer consisting of three pieces of sliced carrot and a couple of bastardised florets of broccoli.
I watched television. I browsed the internet eighteen times. I re-read four chapters of a book I wished I'd written myself. I wore two different pairs of tracksuit bottoms, the first too elasticated for my expanding gullet. I wrote some football preview stuff that ranks among the worst crap I've ever committed to screen. I drank three mugs of strong coffee.
I thought long and hard about a blog entry before it occurred to me that I never pre-think my blog entries, so what was the point?
I finally went to the garden where a collective noun of ants had gathered in their thousands and was barked at by the hobbling dog next door. I encountered one blocked drain and the noise of a fighting couple over the wall next door.
At the death it occurred to me that the originator of this 'three-day solution to clarity' was both a cash rich rock star and somebody who has never lived in this dank little corner of Phibsborough.
Tomorrow I am going to see the sea.