List: A number of connected items or names written or printed consecutively, typically one below the other – Oxford English Dictionary
It’s happened earlier than I thought it would. I’ve actually turned into my mother. The signs were all there: the tone of voice, the raised eyebrows, the way I walk and hold my handbag. And now I have the confirmation I need: I’ve started making lists.
There were always lists in our house when I was a child. Written on teeny-weeny square pieces of paper. At every corner. Next to the phone, on the kitchen table…Shopping lists, to do lists, lists about lists.
In recent weeks, I’ve become a walking wedding encyclopedia and a haphazard one at that. Questions and tasks vye for competition in my swollen head. I’m like a Jack in the Box, waiting for that moment of combustion. “Invitations!” “phone the hairdresser!” “whydon’tIhavemyshoesyet??” I could explode at any given time. People will stand and watch as the bridal detritus flutters to the ground like crumpled confetti.
Fearing possible collapse due to this confusing sanity bypass, it’s time to take action. And I’ve got just what the magician ordered. Ta-da! A LIST. Bingo. I’ll write down everything I need to do and tick it off.
First of all it looks ok. Everything’s in front of me, neatly laid out on crisp white paper. I haven’t even got any ink stains and it’s written in my best handwriting, not my usual undecipherable shorthand-inspired scribble. I’m Miss Super-organised. Like Monica from Friends with her colour-coded wedding folder. My list is my saviour. It will see me right…
Unfortunately, I fail to take into account that while a list can be made with relative ease, my scatty gene is harder to destroy. And guess what? Lists can go missing. Or remain at home when they’re meant to be in a handbag. Or even be thrown in the bin with an empty iced coffee carton.
My flat starts filling up with many different lists. Some of them containing the same information. Others written on the back of un-crumpled receipts. Lists stuffed in my bulging wedding folder, already fit to burst with random ribbons, full-size books and possible hairstyles hastily ripped from magazines.
This is not good. How am I meant to remember all these things? Perhaps I need to make a list reminding me where all my lists are. Or enlist a team to help me with my lists. Do things in a measured and orderly manner, that’s what my fiancé says. I will listen to him tomorrow. For now it’s time to take my listless self off to bed.