Badly suited: Neither over the hill nor looking like Harry Hill Pic: BBC
Procrastination. It’s the thief of time mate, innit? I’m getting my life together and casting out procrastination. It shall be banished henceforth from Lindseyland.
To this end, I’m drafting a life plan. Aw don’t laugh. At least I’m trying. Life plans involve lots of list making apparently. So, today, I made a list, complete with timings. Sadly I’m already an hour behind schedule because I forgot to add in thinky dreaming time. I’ve spent the last 50 minutes in a slump of inactivity, bemoaning my lost youth and wondering whether I should spend fifty quid I don’t have on some new youth-restoring product. It’s just for the skin though.
It’s not a magic elixir which restores me to my halcyon shaggy perm days, complete with acid green footless tights and one of my dad’s shirts, all cinched in with a big belt and finished off with acid green stilettos. Perish the thought. Apparently this new potion does something to the skin and makes it all pink and perky (and presumably makes one squeak along with dancing trotters to cover versions of current chart hits. Admittedly only readers of a certain age will get that reference to the erstwhile singing pig duo). I’ve decided against the purchase by the way.
Due to aforementioned slump, I had to reprioritise today’s to do list. I’ve already chucked away my out-of-date/manky broken beauty products. It’s bin liners ahoy chez Mason. I’ve also braved the wardrobe floordrobe and ruthlessly chucked out three bin liners of tat. This would previously have gone in the eBay cupboard, but that fooled no one. It all goes to the recycling bank now.
Goodbye white blouse which never fitted me properly and strained at the boobs revealing grubby bra and more popover tit than you could shake a stick at! So long Marks and Spencer washable pin striped suit which, when coupled with white blouse referred to above made me look like Harry Hill! Missing you already!
Not. Out it goes. I grew out of them anyway. Literally. I have every size in my wardrobe, from eight to 20.
I’ve clearly peaked too early. I started this purging at 9am and by 9.13 I had burrowed a Lindsey-shaped nest in the midst of a pile of dodgy coloured tights and enough rubbery garments passed off as control pants to give a fetishist a coronary. Then I stood on an upturned plug with my broken foot and I can’t be bothered explaining. Go here to find out what happened to foot. This hurt a bit so I slumped in the middle of tights and pants nest and wept a tiny bit before embarking on a bit of lost youth bemoaning.
By the time I’d pulled myself together 40 minutes had passed and I was way behind schedule. If you factor in the time it took for me to get the feeling back in my pins and needley legs so that I could stand up again, it was a whole hour. So I had to prioritise. I moved lunch forward to 10.30am and ate a packet of jelly babies and a handful of chocolate chips I found in the baking cupboard.
I’ve decided that there’s no point starting anything else now. It’s nearly 10.30am for goodness sake. It would be madness to start now. I’m putting the life plan on the back burner and embracing procrastination again.
PS standing with bare feet on upturned plugs is second only to the paper cut in terms of painful but stupid domestic accidents. Oh and the stubbing of the toe. It’s a bitch too. Mainly because it takes the pain a while to move up from your toe to your brain, and the anticipation just makes it worse. If somebody laughs when I stub my toe, I have been known to get stabby with whatever’s in my hand at the time. Harsh, yet fair, under the circumstances, I feel.
