Adults rarely admit to being bored. It's thought to be a character flaw. Pensioners are particularly defensive: "In the old days we made our own entertainment." they say as if that exonerated them from under-occupation. I, being even older, envisage them playing Tin-Can Squat. Alone. In a cobbled street. Bordered by outdoor loos.
You can be bored by something, or by nothing. Huw Edwards the BBC newsreader bores me. His orotund voice saps even exciting news. I suppose he’d be a perfect candidate to tell me I was suffering from an incurable illness. "The incurable illness is you, Huw," I'd say. "You are oblivion incarnate."
Being bored by nothing is thought to be the boree's fault. Clever people have brains which play imaginary bagatelle, Texas Hold'em, even Russian Roulette. Such brains can read novels not yet written without the aid of a Kindle. Really clever people do not suffer from boredom; otherwise they'd cease to be clever.
It’s possible I fall asleep at night because I’ve been overtaken by boredom. If true this disqualifies me from being clever. I'd argue the point but, alas, there's too much supporting evidence elsewhere. The only unwritten novels I can read are by me.
WIP Second Hand (29,182 words)
From the expression on his face she guessed Ogrill had some crushingly managerial response to make. Unfortunately for him he was forced to restrain himself as a customer started piling purchases on Francine’s previously empty conveyor. “See me in my office,” he said hurriedly.
“In your break, o’course.”
“In my break?” Francine was able to invest her protest with a whine she’d picked up from other women who worked in the store. An eloquent whine which stopped just short of being impertinent.