On being bored on purpose

The repair appointment was booked for the afternoon. I had cleared the cupboard under the sink, moved everything into the hall and been told to expect a call before the plumber arrived. It seemed unwise to start anything involving headphones, wet paint or a trip to the shops.

I sat in the kitchen. After a few minutes I reached for a book, then decided to leave it where it was. I had been complaining that I never had time to think. Here was some time, inconveniently shaped and with a bucket in the middle of it.

At first I thought about the leak. Then I thought about the cost of the leak, the email I hadn't answered and whether the stain on the ceiling was new. These were not especially rewarding thoughts. I checked the time. Seven minutes had passed.

I am very good at finding small tasks. There is always a drawer to sort or a list to revise. If neither is available, I can read about a task someone else is doing. Sitting without one made me restless enough to notice how often I was getting up.

Eventually I stopped expecting the afternoon to become useful. I watched a rectangle of sun move off the chair. A delivery van reversed down the lane twice. Someone nearby was practising the same few bars on a piano, getting further on each attempt and then starting again.

I remembered a visit to my grandmother's house when I was a child. She was making something in the kitchen, and I had announced that I was bored. She said I could peel potatoes. I declined. She seemed satisfied that the problem had been dealt with.

I had forgotten the high stool I sat on that afternoon, and the way my heels knocked against its legs. The memory was useful later, when I was writing about her kitchen. It wasn't useful at the time. I didn't make a note or have an idea for a project. I just remembered the stool.

The plumber arrived at four, found the faulty joint and fixed it. I made tea while he checked that it held. The cupboard contents went back in a less ambitious order than before.

Since then I sometimes leave a short gap unfilled: the wait for a train, the last few minutes before dinner, the time between finishing work and starting to cook. Occasionally I think of something I want to write down. More often I think about dinner.

I don't have a routine for this, and I wouldn't recommend waiting for a leak. I am simply trying to stop treating every pause as an omission I ought to correct. Some afternoons are uneventful. I would like to get a little better at allowing them to stay that way.