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A week of half-finished thoughts, paused plans and a cake for when the words won’t land

Some weeks have all the momentum of a buffering Zoom call, don’t they? This was one of them. Deadlines hovered, ideas blurred. Things remained stubbornly unresolved, and my brain decided there was nothing left in the tank (when it was only Tuesday). Everything felt suspended, like a thought that never quite lands.

Now it’s Friday and a feature article for a national newspaper, almost finished, still sits on my desktop with no ending. Just an ellipsis. Overdue invoices remain unpaid, reminder emails unacknowledged. And those sweetpea seeds I planted weeks ago, when I was full of optimism? Still nothing. Not so much as a microscopic pinhead of a shoot.

I’m testing recipes for a new book (verbal agreement, contract not yet sighted). I’m also trying to start a different kind of book, one where the stars are words, not recipes. But the idea that felt bloody genius a week ago now resembles a disconnected mishmash of bullet points and wishful thinking. At this point, it’s basically a list.

I estimate my brain’s at about 70 per cent this week. Or maybe it’s just reached capacity. Or maybe it’s the clusterfuck state of the world that’s plunged it into stasis. I seem to have enough brainpower for a bit of admin, but not enough for actual thought. I jot down fragments that seem promising, then stare at them later with no idea what they were for. It’s like overhearing the end of someone’s sentence and trying to bluff your way through the conversation.

There’s a novel on my bedside table that I’ve been trying to finish for weeks. I know I should let it go, but I’m too far in to give up, and now I’m reading it with the resentful energy of someone finishing a DIY project they regret ever starting. Meanwhile, I’m helping to sort out the estate of a friend who died unexpectedly and left behind a truly impressive bunch of loose ends: bank accounts, business dealings, accounts with passwords. It’s a sobering reminder that admin outlives us all.

This foggy state of mind seems to match the season here in the UK, which feels neither here nor there. It’s technically spring, but nothing’s quite happening yet. Nothing is quite finished, nothing is quite beginning. Travel plans dangle in limbo. I keep bookmarking dreamy Airbnbs in places with lemon trees and vistas and swimming pools and not much Wi-Fi. But I can’t make the mental leap to actually book one. It’s as though pressing ‘confirm’ would tip the whole Jenga tower.

None of this is serious, but it’s all vaguely exhausting. It’s tempting to impose structure - bash out a dreadful first draft, buy new seedlings and chuck out the non-germinating ones, tie myself to the laptop until I book a holiday. But I suspect there’s no forcing my way out of this. I just have to wait for the fog to lift.

What I did quite fancy was a slice of chamomile and honey olive oil cake, which is this week’s recipe. It’s delicious, for sure. And soothing in that brilliant way that relatively plain cakes can be. But more than that, the act of making something, just one thing, felt like progress. For an hour or so, it gave the week a shape.