PANDEMIC procrastination. It is something I have fallen foul of a lot over the past year. All those little odd jobs that have been pushed to the back of my mind and the bottom of a long to-do list.
Like the brown watermarked stain that bloomed on the bedroom ceiling after leaves blocked the gutters during heavy rain. That was last July. It is still there, like an unwashed skid mark above the wardrobe.
The garage roof isn’t in the best of nick either. It badly needs re-felting and with every passing day more and more resembles a colander. Chances are I will soon run out of buckets to catch the drips.
I still haven’t found a window cleaner since my last one moved away some months ago. My own attempts to wash the grimy glass have resulted in a streaky and opaque effect that, in places, you need to squint your eyes to peer through.
I am considering entering my handiwork as an art installation for the Turner Prize, possibly titled Ode To A Lazy Besom. Or perhaps: Dirty Windows – A Life In Gloom.
The main issue, if I am honest, is that I haven’t had any guests inside my home for months now. By which I mean not since Christmas Day. Even as restrictions ease, it has become habit to spend time socialising or entertaining in the garden.
I feel very Nordic-esque being outdoors so much – Friluftsliv, meaning “free-air life”, is the term coined by Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen in 1859 – but it does mean that the indoors has gone somewhat to pot.
It struck me that I can’t remember the last time I ran a duster over the living room sideboard or tidied the cluttered shelves of my far-too-many bookcases. If I leave it much longer, I might need to call in an archaeologist to excavate the layers of dirt.
The other day a draught from an open window blew a tangle of dog fur out from under the sofa. For a second, I thought a small animal had scurried into the room, such was the hirsute density of this clump. I leapt into the air like the cartoon trope of someone seeing a mouse in Tom and Jerry.
The one positive glimmer is that my own tresses are no longer a dead ringer for Worzel Gummidge waking up after a three-day bender. I finally made it to the hairdressers for the first time in 11 months (yet another prime example of pandemic procrastination).
I must admit to feeling considerably lighter after having a trim. The lopped split ends looked like wind-torn tumbleweed as the salon junior swept them away from around my chair.
I have a week off coming up soon during which I fully intend to blitz my to-do list. Find suitable tradespeople. Clean the house. Shake myself out of this manana fug.
That said, I am also leaning strongly towards a week spent reading a stack of novels and eating cheese on crackers. Oh, cripes, there I go again.
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