I am the Queen

of lists.  And, unfortunately, I am also rather delusional regarding what can feasibly be achieved in a realistic timeframe.  Last week I decided that I would

  1. learn to yodel (yes, there are youtube tutorials…)
  2. read all of Dickens’ novels
  3. cook proper meals (pronounced ‘proppa‘), like Jamie Oliver, in 30 minutes
  4. clean the house INCLUDING the dusting
  5. learn the lyrics to Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah‘ (rather than just joining in rather loudly at the chorus)

I got a little bit side-tracked and made a ballerina fairy dolly instead.

I’m sure I’ll get around to yodelling soon.

Typically I have a little panic attack because there is a whole truckload of things I need TO DO, and that I’m not going to get it all done.

So, I make a list.

Feeling much more calm and composed, I then start some monumental undertaking that is completely unrelated to the very-important-thing-that-needs-to be-done-by-tomorrow-8am-SHARP.  Usually something completely ridiculous like this

or this

Often my little manic craze can last for days, and I end up going WAY over the top and driving everyone around me loopy with the never-ending chitter-chatter on the subject of current interest.

But usually the fad dies as quickly as it arises.  I remember on one occasion getting the idea into my head (who knows how it got there) that we would go camping.  On foot.  In possibly the rainiest part of north Wales in the UK.  So I talked about it for weeks, planned everything to the finest detail, and bought a 5 quid tent from Tescos.  You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Finally the long weekend arrived and I packed our backpacks and the kitchen sink and we set off.  On foot.  For 9 hours.  My enthusiasm was admittedly starting to wane by the time we had hiked along the last pebbled beach (Big T’s enthusiasm had lasted approximately 5 minutes), but luckily we made it to the campsite before major injury or attack by a crazy Welshman with a name like Gwyn or Bryn, or something that requires the use of the back of your throat to pronounce.

Fortunately it had not rained all day.  Which is fairly unheard of in this part of the world.  Unfortunately the whole day’s rain came down at once that night, on the 1 square meter that sported our Tesco’s tent.  When water started running down the seams inside the tent, and both our towels were soaked through, we huddled together for warmth in our drenched sleeping bags and hoped that the Made-in-China pole would hold the whole contraption up for just a few more hours.  Unbelievably we made it through the night, bleary-eyed and clinging onto the shreds of our Tesco’s tent.  After a 22 minute journey home on the bus I was cured of my camping phase and moved on to a more rational hobby.  Beer sampling.

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