If only. Nine-to-five? Hah! What with a commute that incorporates at least two bus journeys, two (potentially long) walks (unless I want to wait ages for yet more buses) and a train journey – through central London's busiest nubs – it is most definitely a case of seven-till-eight, at least. OK, so they're not exactly bankers' hours, or traders' hours. But I don't earn that sort of money, not by a long chalk. Yet.
The latest kung fu session was good. But I am not very coordinated. Yet. When we have been shown new combinations of moves, I have struggled. I can do the moves but get lost in the putting them together and remembering. N told me that I have improved "lots" and said that everyone in the class was the same standard but had just had different amounts of training. I need to build up my confidence, that's for sure.
N's words were reassuring, so instead of burying my head in my hands and weeping (as I did at the time of the work-related blacklisting debacle, in the privacy of the car, obviously), I have vowed instead to practise, practise and practise until I am so focused that when I am on one of these lengthy commutes, say, my mind is in fact busy sending my body leaping across a beautiful backdrop. I shall be lithe, light and strong as an ox, and will be able to translate these mental images into reality. But wait. I am those things, and I can do those moves already. I am. I can! I'll have none of this "I'll try" any longer. Load of baloney waste of time, that. Pah.
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