I am, there’s no use me denying it, an inveterate list-maker. So perhaps I should retract that earlier criticism regarding my husband, and men in general, for all their newspaper-reading, since what is the writing of lists if not a deluded attempt to create some sense of order in one’s own small corner of the universe?
I always tend to think it’s a relatively recent development. Something I’ve only picked up in the last year or two. Then I’ll bump into someone I’ve not seen in ages and they’ll catch me at it and say, God, are you still making those endless bloody lists of yours? Which always comes as rather a shock to me.
My ideal template is a plain sheet of A4, folded in the middle, to create a two-ply rectangle, approximately eight inches by six. Whatever I scratch and scrawl within its borders is the business of that particular day of my life made flesh.
Domestic chores, such as banking, shopping, etc., are entered in the top left quarter. Less pressing but possibly more important matters, such as letters, phone calls, etc., occupy the middle ground. In all that clean white space on the right-hand side I mark down any specific appointments, for example: ‘2 p.m. – Dentist’, with the 2 p.m. underlined and circled, so that I can’t miss it. I might also note down this half of the page any radio programmes which sound potentially interesting. Or a piece of music I’ve heard somewhere and am considering buying. Or even some odd little idea I’ve made a note of, that I plan to follow up.
The bottom third of the page is where all the heavy matter sinks to, such as anything to do with the Inland Revenue or entreaties to visit some aged aunt in Aldershot – commitments which, having not been met on the Monday, will reappear on Tuesday’s list. And, most likely, Wednesday’s too. But written quickly, so as to avoid the thought that one might never actually get around to them. And on busy days these lower reaches might even be cordoned off from the rest of the list by a thick black line, from one edge of the paper to the other, to prevent them contaminating the items above. Because, just as list-writing can be a means of ensuring that every last thing is remembered, it can also be a highly effective method of procrastination – essentially nothing but a list of good intentions which, once written down, need not be dwelt upon for another day.
Anyway, I mention my lists here because, over these last few months, they have been noticeable only by their absence. I suppose if you’re not particularly engaged in the present tense and having trouble projecting yourself into the future, there’s not an awful lot to be writing down. And if you really do need to remind yourself to, say, put the bins out on the Tuesday, you can just write it in your diary. Which is just a list spread over time.
The moment John died my list-making ground to a halt. And when, a few days later, I had a peek at the last list I’d made, just out of curiosity, its contents seemed so utterly trivial I wondered how I could ever have lived a life where such things held any sway.
Because by then the only list in town would’ve been …
GET DEATH CERTIFICATE
VISIT SOLICITOR
MEDICATION?
I entered, I suppose, a life no longer containable by a folded sheet of A4. Or, rather, a life in which the hope of getting on top of things was abandoned. And, of course, in truth I’ve never succeeded in scratching out every single entry on any list I’ve ever written. If I had I would’ve simply created a vacuum which would’ve demanded the creation of a new list of other, even more exacting tasks.
But in the last couple of days I’ve actually written a new list or two. Tentative little things, embarrassingly modest when compared to those titanic, all-encompassing lists of yesteryear. But encouraging, just the same. Scrawled on the back of a flyer for the Wells and Walsingham Light Railway and seal trip timetables. The young shoots of future planning. The bright new hope of lists to come.