Lucy Lethbridge had a bad case of procrastination. Would she find a cure on Sifnos?
My writing life is dominated by the ceaselessly churning wheels of procrastination. Every day presents me with opportunities to invent ingenious domestic tasks to keep the hour of work at bay. Re-arranging pencils, laundering dusters, filing stuff (any stuff) in complicated filing systems, re-potting plants that looked perfectly happy in the pots they were in – there is no region of my immediate surroundings that can’t be improved on in an hour of need. Then there is the world outside to be worrying about: going for walks (letting ideas mull about a bit, natch), going shopping (more milk!), going to pilates or yoga (to de-stress after all the putting off). Phew! After all that activity, the only thing to do is to come home, exhausted, and make a to-do list for the next day. I’ve always harboured the idea that there might be a perfect working space, within whose clean...
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