Deciding not to get the hoover out after all, or sorting out that food shopping list, or even delaying writing the blog post that’s so urgent, can be a good thing. Other than providing some rest for the procrastinator, I mean.
It could be a sign that the book I’m reading is so moreish that I simply can’t tear myself away. Well, maybe I can, but I will be back in my reading chair much sooner than intended.
In a way it’s strange that I have to have thoughts like this. If you read for pleasure, shouldn’t all books be enjoyable as a matter of course? They should, but aren’t always.
Sometimes I haven’t thought the thought out loud until I find myself not creeping back to the chair to pick the book up again. And that feels so sad. And wrong. That’s when I have to think carefully about whether I should put the book away and start another one.
One that will definitely keep me from doing housework, and that I race to finish, only to be annoyed because I got to the end and I will have to find something else to replace it, and I’m certain I won’t be able to find a book anywhere near as wonderful.
Luckily, there are many anti-hoover books in this world. Shame about the others. The timewasters.