It's my time. I can waste it if I want to.

 There were things I wanted to do this week.

I had this plan, you see. I was going to use this week off work to catch up on a few things, sort out some others and generally use my time productively. 

 It didn't really work out like that.

Let me demonstrate with the aid of a couple of lists. The first is entitled:

What I Was Going To Do This Week

Spring Clean

Clean the oven

Do some scanning for the blog.

Try and finish some of the stories I've had lying around for a while.

Spend 30 minutes each day on the exercise bike I've never used. 

Go for long walks

Defrost my fridge.

Reorganise my wardrobe.

Get up early enough to see the sunrise.

Now here's the second list.

What I Actually did. 

Browsed Youtube looking for NWOBHM songs.

Browsed Reddit for way, way too long.

Worked on the model Lancaster I got for my birthday...

...While listening to Prog Rock

Invented an interpretive dance for the Alan Parsons Project track "Eye in the Sky"

(Only hand movements so far but I think I'm onto something.)

Ate an unhealthy amount of ice-cream

Browsed Youtube some more, looking for Russian dashcam vids..

Stayed up until stupid o'clock trying to find a song I knew I had, but couldn't remember the artist.

Popped onto Reddit (again) then looked up and realised it was 1am. 

Cooked as little as possible.

Wore socks only when absolutely necessary. 

Hoovered. But only until I got bored.  

  It's only Thursday so in theory I still have to time to squeeze in some serious dusting and if I really force myself I might be able to finish a story or so.

  It's not very likely though, is it? 

  I think I made a massive tactical error when I was coming up ways to keep myself occupied during the week. I think what I did was this: Instead of things I wanted to do, I lumbered myself with a bunch of things I felt I ought to be doing. 

 And when it came right down to it, I didn't want to do them. 

 I already spend a big chunk of my life doing being somewhere I don't want to be, doing things I don't especially want to do.

 Better known as "Work"

  Is it just me that wonders why we have to fit our lives around the massive part of the week that somebody else dictates? 

 Is it any wonder that once I got home and dropped my work clothes in the laundry pile, my little list of "productive" activities got stuffed into the nearest mental cupboard and I sat back for a week of surfing, napping and dedicated vegetating.

 Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to Google "Dance of the Flaming Arseholes" to see if it means what I think it does, then I'm going to spend the rest of my week off doing whatever the hell I like. 

And definitely not dusting. 

 That's all folks.