First, let me freely acknowledge that I don’t feel I have ‘…a purpose…’ in any profound sense. But how much does that matter?  

This is a time of year when there can be a lot of pressure to set goals, make resolutions, plan new habits and behaviours, and generally beat yourself up and set yourself up for failure and disappointment. Well, that’s how I’ve always found it. I don’t want to detract from anyone else’s desire to do those things, but for me – hey, I’m retired, I live alone, and the joy of both those states is the peace not to feel obliged to follow anyone’s expectations but your own.

That said… my purpose last week was to complete and submit my tax return, which I did on Saturday. Now it’s to bring my accounts up to date, which I haven’t touched for the last two months, even though it’s a task I quite enjoy. Moving data between spreadsheets, checking totals and hunting for errors when things don’t tally – to me, it’s fun, it’s satisfying, there’s always a ‘right’ answer, and if it doesn’t work out, there’s always a reason which can be found – it’s like a puzzle, a more complicated version of killer su doku, but one which has a ‘purpose’ beyond just filling the time. Sometimes I think: I could have been happier as a book-keeper rather than as a failed book-writer, and maybe that’s a path I should have chosen years ago, but too late now, I don’t have the right qualifications – (and no, I have no intention of studying for the qualifications now – given my experiences of retraining in new skills during my fifties – creative writing, web design, graphic design, TEFL etc – and knowing where that got me).

Another potential ‘purpose’ would be to put together the book case which I bought from Argos in the Black Friday sales and which has now spent almost two months in two large cardboard boxes in my narrow hall. At one time I considered making it a post-Christmas project, but I decided to start knitting myself a jumper instead (which is coming along nicely, by the way). I’ve been walking past the boxes for long enough now, I don’t notice them any more, and a further disincentive from putting together the bookcase is that I might then feel obliged to put something on it, which might lead me to think about sorting out the stuff in the study, which could very well precipitate a complete emotional breakdown, so probably best not to go there.

So my plan for the day after I’ve posted this is: brush teeth; dry hair; get dressed; eat breakfast; mess around with my spreadsheets for a couple of hours (depending how much time is left after I’ve finished the aforementioned); spend the afternoon in my chair knitting and listening to the radio; get dinner; do bins (mustn’t forget); watch telly. ‘Purpose’ settled – job done.

These are the kind of summer days it’s easy to fantasise about in the winter, or on any cold, rainy or generally stressful days at any time of year, so I’m deliberately appreciating them and not taking them for granted.

The obsession with crochet could, of course, be something else, like reading, writing, su doku, gardening, cooking, weaving, cross-stitching, tapestry, jigsaws, drawing, painting, decorating, tidying… Why don’t I pour my heart and soul into any of those? It can be done, but at the moment I don’t feel drawn in any of those directions.

Is it because I find it easy? But that’s just practice. It doesn’t always work out. I’ve learnt to let it go, pull it down and try again, put it on one side and try something else, or shove it to the back of the cupboard and forget about it.

I guess that’s what I do with my writing as well – shove it to the back of the electronic cupboard and forget about it. And this morning it’s not working at all. The words don’t want to come. I am looking at specks of dust on my computer, looking out the window at the street (which still seems remarkably empty). Wandering round my head to see if I can pick up any scraps of thought that might be worth recording.

Emptying your head of thoughts is not a bad thing – I spend ten minutes every morning trying to do just that.

I’ve just remembered a moment from last night, just before midnight. I’d been sitting up too late crocheting and listening to music, and when I went into the kitchen, I remembered I’d left the door open for Miko, and she was still outside, so I stepped out into the garden. Despite the neighbours’ fairy lights and the still-illuminated windows, there was mystery out there, no moon (it’s too new) but a few stars in the stillness of the night air. I called her name, and heard her scraping the gravel before I saw her. It could have been any animal sound, but she came to me and jumped up into the patch of light on the steps and ran into the house. I thought of owls (though I hear none here in the town) and night and summer, and the cool air and the mysterious life of cats, and thought about a poem but it didn’t come.  

I did do my half hour of combined yoga, tai chi and meditation before breakfast. It worked well. The mornings are filling up.

On any normal Monday, I would aim to leave home by 8 and walk to the leisure centre on the seafront. The pool closes at 9 for the parent and toddlers session, so I try to get there before about 8.30 or it’s not worth it. I could drive, but I’d have to faff around getting parking places at the pool, in the town centre, and back at home, and, honestly, I’d rather walk.

Which reminds me, my steps per day must have gone down massively.

I swim for about 20 minutes, then sit in the steam room for about another ten. Then shower, wash hair, dress, dry hair, go out and lean on the sea wall for a while. Some weeks over the winter, it’s been the only time I’ve been near the sea, these Monday mornings. Then I walk to the town centre, to a particular café where I have a bacon sandwich on granary bread, with brown sauce, and a pot of tea for one. I do killer su doku while I wait for my sandwich, drink tea and watch the world go by through the window. Then to the library for 11, where I buy a coffee and meet up with my writing buddies. Sometimes I even write, or more recently, edit (not my work though, a book I’ve been working on for a client – the one that I’m currently designing the cover for). Before Christmas (in the ‘black Friday’ sale, though I hate to admit it) I bought myself a notebook computer, so that (in theory) I can be more productive during these sessions.

About 1 o’clock, we start to disperse (the last two weeks I went I was the only one who turned up anyway), and I either walk home, or catch the bus. The bus also takes me back past the seafront, though only a small part of the way. I might pop into the co-op or the health food shop on my way home from the bus stop, if I need anything. At home I potter around till 3, when it’s time for the daily drama on Radio 4 extra, and crochet – usually yesterday’s square for my weather blanket. At 4 I’ll get an early dinner, veggie or at most pescatarian, because I have yoga in the evening. At 6 it’s 4 Extra again, and I get ready for yoga so I can listen to A Good Read at 6.30 so that I’m (in theory) ready to leave at 7, though always lose something, – cushions, water bottle, keys, money, coat – it starts officially at 7.15, but when I’ve got everything together it takes me two minutes to walk round the corner.

That is, any normal Monday.