But ill-advised creativity aside, what about household tasks? The ones you are so smug about embarking on but, just as you reach the point of no return (curtains are halfway off the rail, mattress is standing on it’s side threatening to topple and crush everything in its path, hired carpet steamer looks and feels like it’s going to explode) you realise that this was just another way of making yourself ill-advisedly busy.
Because God Forbid you should start one of these jobs on a clear Saturday afternoon. No, no, no, no. Clear Saturday afternoons are for doing nothing. Stuff has to be slotted in on an already packed day so that it doesn’t infect a nice, airy, empty day. Which is why you find yourself, at 8:07am, sweating into your nightie, surrounded by pans and salad bowls (all of which you hate by the way, why can’t it all be Le Creuset and Mud) as you clean out the corner cupboard of the kitchen when you have to be suited and booted by 8:30.
The cult of busy is so insane. Gainfully occupied is one thing, but quaveringly frantic because you’ve piled task upon errand upon project is most destabilising. Because everything you do is a little bit shit. But you know what they say? If you want something done slightly badly, ask a frantic person who is not so hot at managing her time. Now, I know it’s 10:47pm, but don’t you agree that this rug (yes the one under the king-size bed with divan draws full of heavy things) should be moved three inches to the left? Like, now?