I am drowning in deadlines. To the extent that every single dream I've had for the past two months has involved me being late for something (in one memorable instalment, my Harley Davidson stalled on this single-lane bridge that soared into the sky with no visible means of support, and I was panicking because that meant I would be late for my truck driving lesson). In an effort to get organised, I have taken to making lists, a new one every day, which detail what I have to get done just to keep my head above water. Then the next day I move all the leftover items onto the new list and start again. Ad infinitum. And yes, I do grasp the irony here; if I didn't spend so much time writing lists, I mightn't be in such a bloody pickle time-wise.
Nor would things be so bad if I was just able to crawl into a cave (preferably one with good mobile reception, reliable broadband, and Chinese delivery - food, not people), and be free to become a slightly eccentric hermit. But unfortunately I have no chance, because I am surrounded by teenage drama and incontinent dogs and family crises and a unusually large number of relatives who can't drive (and some of whom, when you're kind enough to give them a lift, manage to jam the inertia reel of the rear seatbelt so now more time has to be found to get it repaired... take a deep breath. In, one two, out, one two). So, anyway, it seems that everytime I sit down and finally start to get some work done I have to jump up again and go do something, like help my daughter buy yet another of the numerous accessories that are apparently essential nowadays for a VCE formal, or visit my youngest sister who's been laying around in bed all week being waited on hand and foot (given that she's in intensive care at the Alfred Hospital, I suppose she can't be held responsible... this time).
Or maybe I'm just in a grumpy mood because it's one way of coping with being worried about stuff (like the above sister). Or maybe because I've finally given up those nicotine chewing gums (seeing I quit smoking over thirteen years ago, it was probably about time). Or maybe because middle-age is finally bringing out the real me - and I'm a bitch. Or maybe I actually do have too much work to do, and not enough time to do it. Or... for a host of other reasons to numerous to write here. Hey I know, I'll make a list.