Today

I have run out of distractions. I forced myself out of bed at lunchtime, after watching the boats on the harbour for an hour and a half. I took my time showering, painting, moisturising, brushing and straightening and told myself that I could not put off tidying the apartment anymore. I did the washing, put away everything that was out of place and cleaned the already clean kitchen despite it not being used since Tuesday when the last meal was prepared, and the fact that the cleaner comes tomorrow at 9am to re-clean it anyway. I tidied my room, removed all hazards from the floor, folded my clean washing and took extra care to pack my Chanel 2.55 Chain Bag away as recommended by the company.
Now that everything is just as it should be, I don't know what to do next. I keep moving from room to room hoping to find a purpose. I sat in the Living Room analysing the weather, partly angry that Sydney is mocking me with what may be the last summer day when I had no energy or purpose to share in it. I sat on the floor of the Library hoping to find sudden inspiration from the spines staring down at me. I took out the rubbish, avoided the reem of photocopied textbook pages the Happy Lady had mailed me, lay on my bedroom floor then wrote a shopping list for when I can force myself to the supermarket (toothpaste, red pen, moisturiser).
What am I waiting for? I have done everything my apartment has expected of me. I am dressed with shoes ready to go out. But I have no appointments in my diary, no phone calls inviting me out, no spontaneous activities that my heart is begging me to do. The clock in the foyer reminds me in 15 minute intervals of the time I am wasting.
I have another 8 days until my family return home. If I wanted I could throw a party carrying on for days and nights to come. I could invite the middle-aged Porsche driving creeps from the elevator to dinner and drink too much and do Karaoke. I could lie dead for days with no-one noticing.
But none of these are things that I want to do. I still want my cup of tea. If I were on the Gold Coast I would arrive uninvited and drink tea and talk with M. for hours and distract her from her dying mother and let her distract me from myself. I would feel partly human again. Instead I have my clean apartment to keep me company.