I am deep in the bowels of admin related activity. Bowels is where admin always takes place in my opinion, because mostly it is pretty poohey and a bit plop, to paraphrase one of my children.
It is my own fault for practising paperwork avoidance for the last few weeks. I am not someone who likes multi tasking overmuch, so when there are a lot of little jobs on hand I tend to concentrate on a few things, massively big myself up about them, and ignore lots of other things by making them talk to the hand, and other such stuff.
Last week, for example, I decided that getting the children to and from school every day with all the correct items they needed, filling in all the bloody, stupid letters required, and cooking a hot dinner every night was as multi-tasky as I was prepared to get. Everything else was eschewed firmly in favour of knitting and biscuit abuse.
This week paper work looms large, so we will probably be back to beans on toast for dinner, and a wing and a prayer as far as school goes.
I have learned, over the years, that in order to have and do everything I must also be required to have and do a nervous break down, due to never having a moment’s uninterrupted biscuit grazing, or indeed any sleep. This does not work for me. One breakdown and a lifetime of teetering backwards and forwards on the seesaw of mentalness is enough to cure me of the need to be superwoman. I will settle for merely adequate bag lady type woman with occasional flashes of unlooked for brilliance.
I have put lots of things in my diary this morning. I always have a paper diary, but rarely manage to decant all the things that I need to do, places I need to be in it, with any efficiency. This leads to all sorts of totally avoidable problems. Generally I bumble through them with some kind of cack handed levity. The Autumn however, is shaping up to be busy, and I have forked out money for things I need to turn up to, and committed to things children need to turn up to, so diary co-ordination is all the rage.
I haven’t done too badly except for one day where I have five things planned to happen almost simultaneously and it is almost certain that I cannot get to them all. I am in the process of drawing lots to see what must be cast asunder.
On top of all this diarytastic behaviour I have answered a birthday invitation that has been sitting on the side in the kitchen for a fortnight. I have replied to an important e-mail that I have been thinking very hard about replying to for several days now. I have done some long overdue research, and set a few wheels in motion with regard to it. This has made me feel terribly efficient.
I have also bought a wedding present for someone whose wedding we have actually been invited to. We are not natural wedding guest sort of people, due to the fact that we are quite anti social and fear formal gatherings.
We like dressing up, but only on our own terms. For Jason this will probably mean some kind of robes and a weapon. For me it could mean anything except what I’m actually expected to be wearing. Oscar favours wearing a swimming hat with any and all outfits at the moment. Tallulah is going through a moody, black phase and Tilly is bohemia writ large.
These are the reasons we are always, if invited to such events, made to sit at the back, on the table by the fire escape with all the other people who are considered reprobates and/or socially awkward.
This has ever been my lot. Even when I was with UE, who was better at this sort of thing than me, we went to a spectacular wedding in Wimbledon where we were put next to an ex SAS pyromaniac who behaved wildly inappropriately all day, culminating in him lighting a fire in the hotel lobby fireplace with his Zippo lighter, to prove his Ray Mears type skilz, and warm an old dear. Sadly the chimney had been blocked up. All he succeeded in doing was setting all the fire alarms off and kippering said old dear to the point where she had to be revived in an ante-room.
This is our lot viz weddings. No delightfully quirky, Pinterest themed extravaganzas with hay bales and rustic/boho fairy lights/ sign posts etc and micro pigs dressed in bonnets. No. Just madmen with terrible kilts and booming voices.
I actively fear weddings for this very reason.
I now have to tax my car, find my MOT paperwork, and book a check up at the dentist’s. I have all the luck, except the bit reserved for Derek who is off to the V E T tomorrow for her annual prodding by the lovely V E T who thinks Derek is a small pony.