Confessions of a serial procrastinator

I'm having one of those days where I can't seem to settle to anything. It isn't as though I don't have enough to do, it's more the need to just check out of the work hotel for a while.

I fancy a day pottering around the garden, tidying the flower beds, dead-heading the roses and re-potting the mint. Then I could attack the bramble that's coming through from the neighbour's garden and taking over the arbour. It is now so rampant, it needs to be given a short, sharp shock - preferably with a flame-thrower. I like this idea a lot, and the only thing stopping me going out immediately to the tool hire centre and coming home with a death-by-bonfire contrivance, is the realisation that it would also burn down my wooden arbour, the neighbour's fence, the neighbour's conifer and, with any luck, the neighbour's two-year old.
That would at least put paid to his mother's constant, half-hearted and futile attempts at discipline: "No, Josh. No, Josh, stop kicking your sister. Don't sit in the water feature, Josh. Ooh. I'll go and get you some dry trousers, Josh. Leave the cat alone, Josh. Put down that machete, Josh." All right, I made that last one up and I wouldn't seriously harm the child. I'd just prefer it if he lived somewhere else. Ulan Bator, for instance.

A quick look at the state of my finances, however, is enough to remind me that the garden will have to wait. As does an even quicker glance at the to-do list in my writing folder:

Complete first revision of 'The Crime Writer's PA', my full length whodunit.
Edit my first short story
Plot 'Organized Murder', the sequel to CWPA
Continue plotting and writing ' The Secret Behind the Red Door' my children's story
Write second short story

So much to do and no idea where to start.

I debate phoning my mother, that would pass an hour or so easily, if not painlessly, but l 'm trying to procrastinate not lose the will to live.

I could go for a walk but my shoes need heeling.


There are any number of things that a true, serial procrastinator might use to achieve their goal - I know, I've employed them all at one time or another. Anyway, I must get on with some work. I really should write something, anything, today.

Right after I've played this game of mah-jong

Why can't men . . .

. . . wash, wipe, and put away the dishes? If they can manage the first, why are they incapable of doing the rest, and vice versa? Why does it have to be either/or? Washing, wiping and putting away is ONE job, guys.

Why can't men wipe down the cooker. Or the work surface?

Why can't men put their own clothes in the laundry basket?

Why can't men go shopping without coming home with cheesecakes but no milk or toilet rolls? You know, the things they went out for.

Why can't men cook a simple meal without using every basin, pot, pan and utensil you possess? All of which need to be washed up later - see above. And why do they insist on preparing enough to feed an army, when there is only two of you?

Why do men mow the lawn but never clean the mower?

No doubt  you can come up with examples of your own - and I'd love to hear them.

I suppose, though, the biggest question of all is: why do we love them so?