PROCRASTINATION, noun, UK /prəˌkræs.tɪˈneɪ.ʃən/ US /proʊˌkræs.tɪˈneɪ.ʃən/

the act of delaying something that must be done, often because it is unpleasant or boring.

I can do anything, anything. The secret is having something more important to do. Take writing: if I have a tax return to complete, I become a million monkeys clacking away at the keys. No problemo.

But today I have a deadline. That sword hangs over my head; I sit down and all I see is pain, a need for distraction and endless acres of white computer screen. I know - I’ll make some tea. I make the drink and while we’re there let’s clean the dead things out of the chiller compartment (went well), and make a shopping list (not so well, it involves writing). Great procrastination though fella, you killed off , ooh, 10 minutes. More white screen. Bigger, whiter. The unwritten words pile up, hundreds of them. If only I could find them.

I thought I’d fixed this. My cozy nook is deliberately non-distracting. Nothing but screen, walls and keyboard in front of me. An interminable period of nothing now happens. Focus! More nothing, more words not conjured up. Let’s try writing to a prompt, grease the knuckles to start the day… nope, that starter prompt generated no more than …checks screen… zero words.

From the closed curtains behind me comes an unrhythmic tapping. I ignore it. It’s the cat banging a toy against the radiator. It goes on for a couple of minutes, pauses, restarts, but doesn’t go away. It sounds like Morse Code, “De-dit de-dit dit-dit …feed the cat… …tuna… tuna…”, I’ve heard this tune before so I soon give in.

The. Words. Don’t. Come. Not even for my starter prompt. The well is dry, people.

Next, I’m recruited for a little game: I drop the cat outside, close the badly fitted door, sit down. The door creaks and the cat enters, playing harmlessly round my feet. I carry on not writing. An icy draught chills my ankles. I rise, close the door, the cat sits applying her pathetic mental powers to open the door again. I don’t write a few more words. Her mind compels me, I get up and open the door again. Rinse and repeat.

There are two things a cat abhors: a food bowl that is, to them, empty; and a closed door. You can guarantee that where a closed door exists, there’s a cat is on the wrong side of it. I used to laugh at their lack of opposable thumbs, now I have become Human: servant of the Cat-goddess. She is a generous god though, bestowing presents. I remember the live bat I had to clear from our bedroom.

For this situation I have no words. No, literally.

I’m nearly in tears. In answer, she crawls up into my lap, her body sounds and feels like a little engine. I cup her head in my hand and glance at her familiar face. I do start to cry. She used to be her cat but she’s gone. We miss her more than words can tell. I feel the purring and my heart melts.

“Oh Missy, if only you could talk and give me a few words of inspiration.”