Oh you would be so proud of me.
I was lying there in bed this morning listening to the milk float trundle up and down the lane, when it suddenly struck me that it was time to get my life, house and hairy legs kinda shipshape! It’s all very well swallowing the old Que Sera Que Sera theory, but trust me it won’t pay the bills or stop you turning into a rather hirstute mammoth if you give up the ghost and let that old devil fate take it’s course.
No, no, no as Amy WineHouse would say. Action and a firm hand are what is required when you are on the verge of loopiness.
Before I knew it I was in the kitchen, hair soaked in conditioner dripping down my back and Fairy scented laundry banging around the machine. But ladies, there is a time and a place for all that is pretty, and quite frankly, a gloomy Monday morning, when even the local newsagent has seen fit to send a gentle reminder to pay your paper bill, isn’t one of them…
So if I tell you a secret or six, will you promise not to shout at me?
You see there is a very pretty blue floral quilted table runner dancing down the centre of my dining room table, and when I can’t think what to do with a piece of mail, whether it be an invitation for something I don’t want to do, an appointment I don’t want to keep, or a bill I’ve got no interest in paying, Housekeepers, I shove it under my frilly finery and pretend I simply never had the misfortune to open it. Genius, mais non? Non. Absolutely non!
Talk about sweeping your troubles under the carpet…
So anyway there I was contemplating devouring a probiotic madagascan vanilla yoghurt for breakfast, kind of swaying to the hum of the tumble dryer, when I finally realised what was wrong with me. It isn’t that I have got a big nose and wonky teeth. It isn’t that the green wallpaper makes me feel like crying or even that the Father of my baby saw fit to run off to Wigan with a crazy hill-billy. Lordy it’s none of those things: I’m feeling kind of bugged because I am a procrastinator of the highest order. I ignore things. Let them crawl under my skin and make me quietly cross.
I don’t make decisions, tell people what I think, paint out Finley’s "artwork" on the wall behind the table, work out how to use the DVD, find a way to make the recycling bins that little bit more accessible, buy new batteries for the remote, call people back, actually call people at all, return essential tax documents or remember to leave a note out for the crazy milkman reminding him that eighteen eggs is more than I can manage on a weekly basis. I don’t watch programmes I record, buy a new knob for the bathroom door so I don’t have to keep leaning out the window to get one of the nighbours to come in and rescue me when I get locked in, nor even move the growing pile of books next to my bed, just in case I feel the need for a change of reading matter in the middle of the night. People I don’t do anything! The front garden is drowning in weeds. The back garden a shrine to a beautiful, but long gone Summer.I don’t pay bills until somebody drags me by the hair and makes me, oh and my hair itself? Dappled with grey and frizzier than it’s ever been!!
But not today. Today inspired by goodness knows what I was a whole new Alison. And because I know her well and knew this personality transplant wouldn’t last, Housekeepers I worked her into the ground! I spent five minutes writing one of my infamous Mission lists, and then scurried around like a demon, making dull phonecalls and attempting to make sense of the nutty British Tax System. I paid bits of money to bill’s I never knew existed, organised Marks time with Finn, returned No Thank you’s, got around to facing the mountain of horror that is Finley’s wardrobe, printed out shopping lists, set up online banking for my new account, started to list my junk on Ebay and finally collapsed in a heap on a sofa covered in white chocolately handprints. Proud and tired and hungry for the first time in months.
Tomorrow I intend to get my wellies on and sort out the front garden, but for now it is time to tackle all manner of blackhead’s, wrinkles, frizz and unwanted hair in the cosy haven that is a milky bath.
Please may I have a round of applause? I’ll be sane before we know it…