I am spending more time with myself than I had done in a long time. This is partly circumstantial and partly intentional. While on my own, I have been going through a lot of introspection but, not exclusively so because you can only do so much introspection before you turn yourself inside out like a sock! I am still actively cooking, baking (not much success there), going for long walks, driving in the Cypriot country side, reading and above all, writing, writing, writing.

However, I am doing something else, which I find very surprising. I am actually nesting; yes, nesting! Once I realised I was doing it, I did some more introspection and started to analyse to see why someone of my age with fully grown family would do a thing like home making. The answer to this question is not 100% clear or certain but, I have some theories.

First of all, what I mean by nesting is that I am constantly buying things, to adorn the house and make it more comfortable and homely. I have acquired a range of items from the humble indoor plants to the more significant pieces of furniture. Considering that I live largely alone, save for the occasional visit by the family from England and elsewhere, I absolutely have no plans to start a new family because that would be ridiculous in the extreme. That’s beside the fact that the house is a rented one and the owners may terminate the agreement at a month’s notice. My work circumstances could dramatically change to necessitate returning to England. In short, I have no earthly reason to embellish and adorn the house which is way over-configured for my daily needs.

Setting outward appearances aside, where I like to maintain a serene disposition internally, I feel I am running out of time. By “running out of time”, I do not mean, I am terminally ill, nor am I serving my work notice and, although I am officially entitled to retire, I have no plans to do so in the foreseeable future. So, what does running out of time mean.

In the last year or two, I have been feeling that I need to do “more stuff” from professional accomplishments, share life experiences with people I care about, impart with experience and knowledge with work colleagues, seeing more of my family, who now include two delightful grandchildren, and of course, more writing, writing, writing.

The urge to do more stuff is so overwhelming, I get frustrated, angry, sad and even despondent when I am unable to do any of these things due to other people having different agenda from me. So, I move on to the next activity with other people in order to maintain the momentum of stuff doing.

You may conclude from all of this stuff doing that I am actually preparing for my eventual death and, morbid as the thought of dying might be, I do not share this conclusion. When I was trying to analyse my behaviour, I considered this thought and I have to be honest and say, that’s not what is motivating me. I have come to terms with my mortality a long time ago and I have not yet taken conscious action to leave a legacy of any kind. The reason, I think, I am doing it is purely selfish; I am doing it for my own satisfaction in this life rather than the afterlife.

Here is the weird thing though. Every time something gets done, no matter how well it got done, I am not interested in the achievement, I am looking to the next thing to be accomplished. I am obsessive about time, goals, milestones and overall deadlines. I am getting to work earlier and earlier and although I feel tired towards the end of the day, I take work home to carry on after dinner and a short rest. I have a long list of work things I would like to see accomplished. I have a million ideas to write about. I want to read more books, see more films, experience new things, bake glorious bread and spend more time with people I really like.

And here is the frustration with having a voracious appetite for doing more stuff: Things are hardly ever done on time, milestones are missed, goals are compromised, and deadlines are passed without the end result being achieved. My list of work targets is knocked out of the park because of competing priorities, writing is hellishly difficult to do and, the outcome is always below the standard I would like to attain; I am a notoriously slow reader (I am sure I have a form of dyspraxia); Cinema in Cyprus is mostly about the latest Fast & Furious or Fifty Shades of Grey; and glorious bread is harder to bake than getting a young chimpanzee with a sugar rush to sit still while I explain in great detail Newton’s Three Laws of Motion. As for spending more time with people I really like, that is neither always mutually felt nor precisely synchronised.

Back to the nesting thing I mentioned earlier. Why am I doing it? I do not know for sure but I have two plausible theories. The first one is that furnishing and doing things around the house, even by shuffling the same furniture in a room has a clear tangible result and it gives the appearance of stuff being done. The feeling of accomplishment is transient, of course but, it does provide a temporary rush of adrenaline. The second theory is a little circular: as I am spending more time on my own, I may as well be comfortable while at the same time, if I make the place more appealing, I will spend more time in that environment instead of being elsewhere.

Anyway, if you come across me in the near future, my advice to you is that if you are not in to manic and urgent stuff doing, then keep clear of me. You have been warned!