Today was a proper Tuesday. Not much happened apart from work and slightly too much checking to see if I had any interesting emails/Tweet replies/Instagram comments and whether anyone had put a short film of, say, a baby hedgehog giving a massage to a baby three-toed sloth on Facebook.
They hadn’t, but I kept checking.
My daughter goes to gym training for two hours on a Tuesday night, so it’s usually a quiet one in on my own.
My husband waits for her, watching football on the telly in the café/lobby thing up there.
He’s very much the gym dad and I am so, so grateful to him for taking that on. I find that wait excruciating.
I take a book, or a magazine, but I can’t concentrate on anything because the lighting’s no good, other parents are chatting and the TV is on. So I sit there silently fuming about all the things I could be Getting Done.
Like my dreaded pile of filing which, as a result of this night in, I have just about finished going through.
The first stage was an even worse arrangement of small piles – insurance, bank statements, council tax, tax stuff etc etc – covering the entire study floor, which the cat loved to walk across and mix up.
Most of it is now filed, chucked, or on a new action pile, of things which must be done tomorrow. Really tomorrow, because many of them should have been done in September.
It’s such a relief, because that Hell Pile has been growing in a spot just in the sightline of my left eye, for months now, sending me negative vibes of guilt.
Now there is a nice basket with a neat row of folders for things which are still in progress, most of the rest filed in ring binders. Just the bank statements to do. Not quite as neat as the room at the top, but I can aspire.
I feel a little bit like one of those hoarders after the obsessive compulsive cleaners have been through.
Next, it’s the airing cupboard.