I am not on effing holiday

OMG. I just realised something.

I was typing out an email to my friend, and launching into the usual litany of how I must be "doing something wrong" because I am not "enjoying" my holiday. Sure, the writing is going well -- and that's one of the major reasons for me taking this time off my day job -- but the rest has hardly been a picnic.

I'm hardly reading for pleasure, there are a stack of DVDs I'm dying to watch that I haven't even taken out of their plastic wrappers, I have hardly socialised (let alone blogged), I rarely take photo walks, I've never sat outside in the sunshine to drink my coffee, I've been running myself ragged on the domestic To Do list.

In fact, I felt more rested when I had a day job to go to two days a week.

I really honestly thought it would be different.

And then, it hit me.

My "holiday" is 10am to 3pm on Wednesdays and Thursdays while my daughter is at kindergarten. That's ten hours a week, at least four of which is devoted to the act of sitting at my computer and churning out words.

The remaining six are crammed with replying to emails, drafting the occasional blog post, making phone calls, scoffing lunch whilst listening to a podcast, making lists upon lists of more things To Do, paying bills, following up medical appointments, tying up loose ends at work, getting organised to cook dinner.

In short, there ain't no holiday. Suddenly, sitting at a desk that's not in my home and thinking about something other than the mess in my mind for 16 hours? Now that feels luxurious.

I'm totally starting to bore myself with this, so I promise this will be the last I'll say on this topic. [For now, heh.] Suffice it to say, once that shitty first draft of my novel is done -- around Easter, or thereabouts -- things are going to change around here.

I've worked for fifteen years to earn this holiday.

I want an effing holiday.