The perils of not being arsed

This is the post where I make out that this blog - which is essentially a bunch of ones and zeroes sitting on a Google server somewhere - is a physical place. "Blimey," I'll say out loud, to no-one in particular, "it's been a bit quiet in here lately, hasn't it?"

What I actually mean is that the afore-mentioned zeroes and ones haven't really been added to for some time. I've been lazy. It's been remiss of me. Mea culpa. I have no excuses.

I can't blame my medical condition. The operation has largely been a success, and I no longer make a noise like Brian Blessed gargling with lentils while I attempt to sleep. In any case, it would be really crappy to claim that a hurty throat and wonky nose were somehow stopping me from writing. We've seen novels written by bed-bound patients who could only blink, for goodness sake.

My inability to eat crisps for three weeks hardly compares.

No, my silence has been caused by another affliction. Not Being Arsed.

For the Americans amongst you, I should explain. You're probably used to the word 'arse' being our equivalent to 'ass' and are worrying about whether 'being arsed' is something to be mentioned on a blog that is, nominally at least, safe for work. But the whole 'being arsed' thing is a peculiarly British version of ennui. It's low-level demotivation. I shall explain with an example.

"Wayne, fancy coming down the pub tonight?"

"You know what, Shane? I think I'll stay in. I really can't be arsed."

It's quite tricky. You come home from work, do the chores that you need to be performed, and then all you want is to stare into the middle distance. You don't want to attempt anything else. You just can't be arsed, quite frankly. Just stare aimlessly. I'm good at this. Don't try to challenge me. I can stare into the middle distance with the best of them.

Please don't ask me to do anything that requires any thought or dedication. I've got some staring to do.

And so Monday turns into Tuesday turns into Wednesday. Weeks pass. You stop staring for a moment and realise that you haven't written anything in ages. Meh. Can't be arsed. I've got my stare on.

But then I realised that I couldn't claim to be a writer if I didn't actually write. It would like trying to be a baker if you didn't bake. Or a butcher that didn't butch.

So I'm going to try to do something a little more productive than middle-distance staring. I'm going to try to be arsed, once in a while.

Make of that what you will.