I can only do so much

It seems I'm limited in my accomplishments, as though accomplishment itself is a tangible to parcelled up and passed out each day, to be spent wisely by it's recipients. The more effort I put into my flat, the less I'm able to put into my work, into my job. An obvious equation really, given that my presence at one usually precludes my availability for the other. Nevertheless, it's become increasingly obvious as the work on my flat accelerates to it's completion. My availability for my job has dwindled noticeably and I'm certain my output has fallen proportionately. Though, of course, no one has broached this subject save myself. I rather wish someone would. I'm experiencing an absence of guilt that seems most uncharacteristic, and just a touch worrying.

Still, the finishing of the flat is tantalisingly close now. An appointment with a tiler earlier today yielded pleasing results - he'll be able to tile the kitchen this week, and the showerroom the following week, and for a considerably small price than I'd budgeted for (though naturally I instantly reallocated the excess money for more expensive floor tiles). Assuming various other pieces fall into place it's possible, quite possible, that the first week of August could see me living in my flat. I shan't bet on it, though, but it's a comforting thought anyway...