I have a love-hate relationship with lists. Part of me thinks that lists look so pretty, especially if you write them down in a spanking new notebook with a spanking new pink pen. Equally, I think that they can soon become monuments to your own ineptitude and inability to stick to a set of tasks. All in all, I think it is vastly better to get on with your stuff, rather than listing it all out (a bit like that plan thing you know...).
As per usual, there isn’t very much on my list, if not a few, very vague entries which read a bit like new year’s resolutions. Talking of which, only the other day I was reviewing my resolutions for the year 2006. At that point I wrote ‘to swear less’. Whatever possessed me to write down such a thing, I really do not know. Quite frankly, swearwords are to me what dreadlocks are to Bob Marley; a fucking-free life is too grim even to contemplate. I shan’t write that one down again.
So yeah, I was saying that there is nothing on the list, or pretty much nothing, but I should also add that today I ticked something off it, even though it wasn’t written down to begin with (are you following? This is sounding like an absurdist piece of experimental writing. If you don’t get Beckett, stop reading right now). This something is book number two, which I finished late in the afternoon and whose demise to the land of the fully edited I toasted with a bastardised Irish coffee which was really a latte with Bailey’s and Tia Maria. But that’s fine anyway.
Now I am sitting in the bedroom with my mouth watering at the smell wafting from the kitchen: parsnips, potato and carrot crispies crackling away under the grill. It’s time to be over and out.
