How Long Is One Day?

"How long is one day?", you ask,
And without pause to reflect,
I reply, "twenty four hours make
A day and a night."

"No, no", you say.  "How long is one day?".
"Twelve hours are generally known
To make up half of one day", I say,
Wondering if whether this time I am right.

"But how long is one day?", you insist,
Patience gradually waning
As I puzzle and ponder but,
Try as I might,

No answer I give can answer your question,
Until you explain that so often I say,
"You can do that, you can have that,
Not now, not yet, but One Day."


People often ask me how long it takes me to knit a sweater.  They might as well ask how long is a piece of yarn?

My day started with good intentions to do some much-needed cleaning, sorting and throwing away.  The idea was to undergo a thorough Feng-Shui session, thus freeing myself of my usual chaos and creating space for my work.  According to the book given to me by my dear and delightful friend, Martina, Lady Honeycourt, one cannot consider starting a serious business without being organised and, ideally, beginning the day with a meditation, no matter how brief.

All fired-up I was.  Sneak in one more cup of coffee before settling down to wriggle and fidget on my meditation bench for at least ten minutes.  Better than not at all.  The kitchen is a mess!  The boys cooked a Chinese meal late last night.  Left the pans to soak.  I know they should clean them and put them away, but I cannot possibly relax and enjoy my coffee with the kitchen in such a state.  It won't take long, and I shall just have to forbid them to cook, ever again.  Wait a minute!  They cook for me, too sometimes. 

An hour or so later, gleaming kitchen, pots and pans tidily residing on the newly wiped shelves ... couldn't possibly put them away until that was done ..., old, sprouting potatoes ready for the compost heap, empty bottles sorted for recycling, kitchen floor swept and mopped.

Coffee cold.  Now, where was I?  Ah, yes.  Start the day with a short meditation.  On the way back to the sitting room I grab a pile of clean clothes and place them on the bottom stair, ready to take up later.  Notice two pairs of jeans which need to be taken-up.  Get the sewing machine out and place it on the dining room table for later.  I'm sick of wearing my old jeans which hug my hips and leave my kidneys exposed to chills and possible death, not to mention the cramps in my hands from constantly pulling my jumper down in a vain attempt to conserve a modicum of warmth.  Before you ask, I had no choice.  Fashion has dictated for some time now that the waistband of jeans reach no higher than the belly button.

On returning to my patiently waiting meditation bench I almost stumble over the laundry basket, overflowing with dirty clothes.  Pop them quickly into the machine.  They can wash while I ruminate.  That's Time Management for you.

Kai had the same idea, the previous evening.  I remove his washing, look around for a basket, anything, to throw it into.  Baskets and anythings already filled with my sons' clothes, awaiting their attention.  Oh well, won't take long to hang these out, then I can get my washload going.  Fill the machine, sprinkle in the soap powder, press the Start button.  Nothing.  It pops out again, repeatedly and mutinously.

I'm buggered if I'm going to allow myself to be ripped-off by yet another workman, and no way can I afford a new washing machine so, as you do, I fetch the toolbox and get out the screwdriver in order to dismantle the thing.  The super-duper multi-attachment screwdriver is not in the toolbox.

I borrow Kai's S.D.S.D. which I gave him for Christmas.  He keeps it in his wardrobe and, as his room adjoins Michael's, I take an extra moment to wake my youngest son and pass on a message to phone his therapist for an appointment.   I get grumbled-at for waking him at such an early hour - midday! - and am informed that he hates me.  "I know", I say, without rancour.  Back down to the cellar, multi-functional screwdriver in hand.  I manage to unscrew every screw, except for the last.  I give up, for now.

Time to start my day with a short meditation.  The sitting room is a mess.  A variety of yarns vye with piles of paper, knitting patterns, bills, Marie Claire Idées, Vogue Magazines and Donald Duck comics for floor, chair and shelf-space .  A quick tidy, and then I'll begin.

The winter yarns are now nestling happily in plastic bags on the shelves in the cellar.  Lavender bags are poised, ready to fend off any marauding moths.  The summer yarns are rearranged in wine crates imprinted with my name (special offer - irresistible) in the sitting room.  The papers and magazines are - omigod!  where did I put them?  Never mind.  Later.  First things first.

All the while, my "memoirs" are bugging me to be written.  "Not now, not yet", I murmur.  They persist, alongside visions of crocheted flowers, knitted garments, gorgeous bags crafted out of a combination of beautiful fabrics adorned with knitted and crocheted ... flowers and dangly squiggy bits.  Oh, and beads and fake pearls.

Time for a well-deserved break.  Quickly jot down my thoughts or, rather, type them on my laptop.  Must get a Dictaphone.  Start typing.  The phone rings.  Someone with an unintelligible, unpronouncable name is pleased to inform me that I have been chosed to take part in a lottery draw.  I hang-up.  Type a few more words.  The phone rings.  'Nuff said.

Dismantle the phone.  The bench beckons.  The boys are playing loud music upstairs.  Can't meditate with that row going on.  I'll just run up quickly and ask them to turn the volume down.  Ignore the piles of clothing on the stairs.  Hey!  I know that song.  One of my favourites.

Namaste.