So we’ve established by now that I am a time-waster, a faffer, a pontificating dawdler. And verbose. It’s not that I’m not an organised person, far from it, it’s more that my organising energies are directed badly: list-writing, calendar-marking, CD-arranging, labelling, cataloguing, in short anything that could probably safely be left until I’ve run out of all other occupations except breathing. I also get side-tracked very easily, so right in the middle of importantly tidying a stack of books (I have nowhere near enough shelves, or space to put them), I’ll remember the item I forgot to write on the shopping list earlier when I got halfway to the fridge door and decided to alphabetise the recipe books (all under V for Vegetarian).
To make matters worse, as well as my now-legendary written verbosity, I have a severe case of what my mother refers to (and believe me, it takes one to know one) as verbal diarrhoea, and I don’t seem to be able to talk and do things at the same time – one thing always distracts the other. By the time I’ve zig-zagged my way through seven interleaved activities when I get home from work, it’s just about bedtime; add a phonecall from my mum and a report of the phonecall to the long-suffering OneMonkey, and it’s so far past bedtime I may as well start making breakfast.
What’s that? You mean, if I stopped writing about how I never got round to writing, I might actually write something? Hmm, there’s an idea. Maybe I should try it sometime.