More prevarication. Ever since I realised the men's singles Wimbledon final and the Euros final fell on the same day, I've been wondering whether or not to book the cheapest hotel possible for Sunday night so I could watch them.
Explainer: I don't have a telly at home nor a TV licence, don't like illegally watching stuff online, feel unable to invite myself round to anyone's house to watch there, and wild horses couldn't drag me to a pub or any other public place full of potentially germy humans.
The finger's been hovering over the 'Book' button since yesterday; I've added and removed that £25 Travelodge room to the basket countless times.
I wasn't sure what the problem was. Did I just not want to watch Wimbledon or the Euros? These things were once sacred to me. I'm still not recovered from Euro 96. But now it felt like I didn't really care either way.
But then, when I tried to go out this morning for groceries, it was a genuine struggle to get out the door. It came to mind that I hadn't left the flat since Tuesday. Not leaving the flat tends to ramp up the agoraphobia. I learned this the hard way during 2020.
If it's purely anxiety that's holding me back, then bollocks to that. One has, as they say, to feel the fear and do it anyway. I forced myself out, bought groceries, had a browse in a couple of charity shops, felt better for it, came home and booked the hotel room.
I'm now packing for a night away in the van this evening too, because there's no point having a stealth camper if you don't use it; this is also something I've become frightened of doing.
Let's have a 2021 baptism of fire please.
I thought I'd head to Swansea, maybe for a cycle along the seafront.
Maybe I'll come home after, maybe I'll brave it out. No matter. Going out right now is definintely a good idea because Bongo Guy has just turned up on the rec.
Ciao bambinos, wish me luck.
Today's Photo: RH FUR
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