Nothing ventured, nothing gained

Because 'doing nothing' often means nothing of the sort

Photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash

My ideal weekend tends to start one of two ways, either as a blank slate, with no prior commitments but the time and energy to make some - the more impromptu the better. Or the opposite: ambitiously over-scheduled with an optimism that borders on nonsensical, but that usually works out. The end result is very often the same. Busy.

This weekend veered towards the latter, at least in my diary: an art opening after work on Friday, lido swim first thing Saturday, dinner round a colleague’s Saturday evening, and both brunch and a birthday tea scheduled in for Sunday, forecast permitting.

In the event, it wasn’t to be. The sun came out, but I was under the weather, laid low with one of those stealth summer colds that announces itself with an unseasonable shiver and ends in sweaty sheets and a trip to Co-Op to buy ALL THE SOUP.

If I start feeling ill in the office, as I did Friday lunchtime, I immediately suspect myself of psychosomatic playacting. Blame the capitalist machine, I guess, and my family’s instinctively ‘Aunt Sadie’ tolerance of illness (IYKYN, Mitford fans).

But like being surprised by my period, every damn month - what can those aches be? oh, but of course! - my body is one step ahead of my brain.

And so, reluctantly, I cancelled my weekend engagements - art, swim, dinner, brunch, tea - until I was left at home for the full 60 hours doing nothing, on purpose, which is surely one of life, pending’s most important skills.

I’ve written elsewhere about how it took catching Covid in late 2021 - mercifully mildly - to slow me down in my last full-time job. And, here on Substack, about the psychology of longer-term recovery after quitting said job or, in my partner’s case, sustaining a serious injury. Z is currently on his first cycling trip since his fall - a measure of just how well the recovery has gone - so I’ve spent the whole weekend in my own snuffling, wheezy company. And that’s probably for the best.

Is it more enjoyable doing nothing with other people or on your own? That depends on who you ask. There’s a whole genre of comedy that champions the former kind of fun, whether in a couple or among friends. Think Stefan Golaszewski’s Him & Her, starring Sarah Solemani and Russell Tovey as the laziest duo in sitcom history or the ultimate ‘show about nothing’, Seinfeld.

But for people pleasers, it can be hard to relax into because, confusingly, ‘doing nothing’ often means nothing of the sort, but actually doing exactly what you want in the moment. Which, if you're like me, is challenging unless / even if you’re alone.

When I got home from work this week, this looked like bingeing back-to-back episodes of Selling Sunset, albeit to dwindling returns. Rather like the recent reports on ultra-processed food warn us, the yassified Oppenheim crew are an easy fix on a Friday night, but ultimately leave you feeling wired and worse than before.

Waking up on Saturday morning, sore of throat and hungover with screen fatigue, I found it more soothing to pick up a book and read the last 100 pages of my current novel-on-the-go, The Idea of Perfection, by Aussie writer Kate Grenville, before starting another one, 2020’s Luster by Raven Leilani. Between the two, I did just two things: changing from PJs to leggings, and walking to the library to do the swap.

For context, West Norwood Library is only at the end of my road and also happens to be one of my favourite places in the world. It’s really not big, so I’m always surprised by how often it throws up just the title I’m looking for, and by the enthusiasm of its staff, who curate its displays to ensure plenty of serendipitous discoveries, too.

Some of my favourite recent borrows include Katherine Heiny’s Early Morning Riser, Elizabeth McCracken’s The Hero of This Book, and Musa Okwonga’s In The End It Was All About Love (from the LGBTQ+ section, which is particularly strong).

The building is a cinema as well as a library, so the site of my regular solo film outings on £5 Mondays, with the added bit of history that a key scene in A Clockwork Orange was filmed there when it was still a community centre called Nettlefold Hall. In screen one, the orange-covered seats amid a sea of grey are a subtle tribute.

You might not be in London SE27 anytime soon, but I keep hearing from friends who are visiting their own local libraries more regularly, too, with or without children in tow. Are you? This stuff matters: borrowing keeps your library open because it’s a clear metric of usage for the local authority, and it also supports authors who receive a payment every time you take their book out. And that’s not nothing.

(Just remember to take them back. Or you’ll be left with a whole other pending…)

While I wait this week:

I’ve been watching: Wimbledon. Not a lot, but a bit, and somehow the key moments, namely the closing sets of Vondrousova / Jabeur and Alcaraz / Djokovic. Thrilling! Though I’ll admit feeling sadder for one of those runners-up than the other. Eek.

I’ve visited: Sotheby’s and Christie’s for a work project. Both auction houses put on free exhibitions of their lots (just because you can’t afford Klimt’s Lady with Fan at £85.3m doesn’t mean you can’t look at it). I was particularly taken by this Alice Neel painting from 1966, on loan to Christie’s current Selfhood show, which ties in with the recent reopening of the National Portrait Gallery. It’s of her daughter-in-law, Nancy, and because I'm still a little pale and wan right now, she can be my proxy today.