Procrastination ..... by Faith Puleston

…. is the thief of time. That’s what our teachers made us write out 100 or more times if we did something we shouldn’t in class. I remember being extra obstreporous in order to share in this dubious honour. The worst punishment was proved to be not the writing of those lines (I had even practised that at home for speed), but the quiet reprimand the teacher gave me for letting my parents down. I was never deliberately good, just one of those people who are congenitally in awe of authority and never feel good enough.
I think I mastered the fine art of “being good” at a very early age. “Being good” was really the same as not being found out not to be good. I’m sure I’m in good company on this!
My mother had a different foible. She always believed what her awful relatives told her. This was regardless of the detriment of herself and I’m sure many of her wacky decisions were not really hers. For example, she took me away from my really great piano teacher to have lessons with the teacher of my elder cousin, who I hated (the cousin). This teacher lived a busride away in a house in a crescent up a hill and round the corner. She had a big black upright piano and I could not reach the pedals properly. She thought all the music I played was dreadful and insisted I play very old-fashioned stuff in three-four time. I think this is because she liked dancing. She would alternate between doing little jigs behind me as I played and demonstrating how I should play (for her?), jewels clanking on the keys, head bobbing so that the earrings swayed like swings. I think she was probably warm-hearted, but the association with the hateful cousin, who was soooooo superior to me that I was given her grown-out.-of dresses (it’s a pity to waste them), was enough to make me hate the teacher too, and I can’t even remember her name. This charitable hand-down of used clothing was more than even my mother could take, so I didn’t actually have to wear the dresses. It they had come from anywhere else, I would have liked them. We weren’t poor, but my Uncle was rich and didn’t we know it. I remember this cousin getting a huge bosom and being dire afraid that I would get one too – well, not one that big! Fortunately my figure did not become quite as grotesque as I perceived hers to be.
Where was I? Ah yes, my urge to be good. Well, that urge was combined with one to test what grownups did for veracity and sincerity. I fell on my nose many times through it and did some totally illogical things in the quest for what I perceived to be truth. One example is this piano teacher. She had told me that if I found I didn’t have the busfare, I should tell her and she would give it to me. What? She would give me money just like that? Definitely a case for testing. So what did I do? Hide my money in my shoe? In a pocket? In my music case? No. I threw it away! Then I knocked on her door.
The sequel should have been different, but in fact she opened the door and when I had acted out my tale of woe, she gave me the required coins and sent me off home. I was quite ashamed of myself. Technically I had no busfare. But morally?
And the procrastination? Well, last week I sat here on the journal page and couldn’t be bothered writing anything, so this week I’m getting in early, before my procrastinating self has time to opt out.

Have a beautiful Sunday!