PBPD …

I have given the matter considerable thought and come to the conclusion that I am suffering from a never-before-recorded ailment – Post-Bliss Procrastination Disorder.

The sufferer, adjusting to every-day living following an extended period of rich life-fulfillment, plunges into distractions and diversions and finds they are unable to apply themselves to the pursuit of their dreams.

The disorder is further compounded by friends throwing great parties which side-track one from the business of pegging away at comparatively mundane – but still important – steps along the path of dream-realisation.

My dear friend Hannah triggered a major surge in my PBPD a couple of weeks ago when she announced that she would be staging a special birthday party for her husband Nick. Never one to miss a chance of dressing-up, she declared that all guests must come attired as their favourite musician from the 1980s.

I was immediately consumed by a vision of myself as Adam Ant.

Ah, Adam …

For Millennial readers, Adam was a leading exponent of the New Romantic movement who had me squirming with excitement as a 14-year-old. I began to spend much of my spare time sourcing such necessary costume items as white face paint, a pirate belt, dangly feather hair plaits, a dagger and a frilly-cuffed shirt. Substantial reflection and ingenuity was also invested in working out how to transform a black cropped jacket into a semblance of a gold-braided Hussar’s uniform.

The result, if I say so myself, was pretty awesome!

Stand and deliver!

Like all Hannah’s parties, this one rocked. The birthday boy was magnificent as Freddie Mercury, while the hostess with the mostest rocked Michael Jackson circa Billy Jean. The party was also attended by a Tina Turner, a Bob Marley, a Cydni Lauper, a Stevie Wonder, and a Beastie Boy among many others.

For HWB there was only one possible option – it had to be Bob Dylan. HWB is a die-hard devotee of the Bard, so he also got slapped with the white face paint and eye-liner to replicate Dylan’s look during his 80s Rolling Thunder tour.

I had barely had time to remove my lip-gloss when the next distraction presented itself – a girls’ night out to see Fleetwood Mac in Sydney. This PBPD-exacerbator was perpetrated by my mate Julie, who rounded up nine feisty and fabulous women for an evening of unbridled fun.

I discovered that it is impossible to contemplate plot modifications and calibration of chapter lengths while sipping champagne in a stretch limousine and energetically singing Black Magic Woman.

PBPD is, of course, seriously inflamed by work, family commitments, house cleaning, reading, cooking and … just about anything that doesn’t involve sitting religiously at the computer and editing one’s manuscript.

I’ve yet to find the cure, but hope that once I leap the hurdle of my brother Simon’s 50th birthday party this evening I shall summon the necessary will-power to refocus on the bigger, literary picture…