It’s the first weekend in a month that I’m not planting anything, not pulling anything out  nor (the firm favorite since we signed the offer to purchase on a new house) planning our vegetable garden . The kitchen counters aren’t covered with buckets of separating whey and curd, the cheese thermometer’s  quietly resting in it’s plastic holder, the food dehydrator isn’t buzzing and the vacuum sealing machine has been boxed away after the morning’s grocery shop. My hands don’t have the faint odor of sterilizer, aren’t sticky with castor sugar and the heavy-bottom pot isn’t sickly sweet with rapidly boiling jam or chutney or preserve. In fact, the house is earily peaceful.

So, with a vaguely guilty frown, I find myself lazy. Or perhaps just tired.

Having been back at work for three weeks, the year appears to be returning to normal. Deadlines loom, the to-do list at work is rapidly extending itself, the 8 hours Monday to Friday calender has filled to a third with meetings and the dreaded worry begins to set in.

I do have to remind myself that last weekend was rather busy, as was the weekend before that. Let me see, last weeked: wake up to the sound of excitedly barking dogs only to find a bag of (what appeared to be) stolen goods on top of our back wall. I phoned the police, who very co-operatively dispatched a vehicle, only to find our neighbor pearing over the back wall and very happily finding that his stolen goods were a mere 3 meters away. Of course we let them jump over (the dogs were not happy with this) and retrieve his high-fi. (We should have returned the goods on condition that they play decent music but, being fast asleep, it slipped our minds).

After that exciting start to the morning, I mowed the lawn while hubby took the maid shopping for her kids’ school stuff, made cottage cheese, washed the cars (this activity hubby instigated, I got involved in order to audit the cleaning process) and began with another gauda.

Sunday was the usual walk-in-the-park with the dogs and the rest of the day was spent on the couch.

In other words, a normal weekend.

So why am I not doing anything today? I simply don’t know. Perhaps one just gets lazy sometimes.

Ive been struggling with something for a little over 2 years now and it may seem strange to some. On the other hand, it may not to others and for those of you who have not been aware of it until now, I warn: stop reading!

The predicament is this (there’s one cliché to follow): “it is said that the eyes are the window to the soul”.

So why then do I find myself unable to talk or converse with someone comfortably while looking them in the eyes? I often don’t know where else to look. The conversation begins, I feel comfortable, but then after about 2 minutes begin to feel as though I’m boring a ten kilometer hole down the other person’s head! People begin shifting uncomfortably, find renewed interest in the paint on the walls or their cigarette. Am I alone in this?