Six things I must remember in life

Why this picture? Absolutely no idea whatsoever. It's somewhere on the M4.

This has been a week of achieving absolutely nothing whatsoever. I have sat in front of my computer clicking morosely on ‘send and receive all’ in hopes that an email might ping in that will change my life. So far this hasn’t happened but, in the interstices between this pointless total lack of activity, I have come to some realisations.

1. Lying is bad for your work. Yesterday an editor emailed to discuss a project. Could he have my phone number as it would be nice to chat. Er, well, I prevaricated, not really ideal given the horrendous banging noise from the floorboards being put down next door. ‘Oh,’ he replied. ‘You must have a huge floor. They were going down a couple of weeks ago, if I recall.’ My phone phobia is reaching ridiculous proportions.

2. Drinking like a fish has consequences. I relayed my long list of strange and surely deeply abnormal symptoms to the doctor (content in the knowledge that, having been reassured that there is nothing majorly wrong, they would all disappear and life would go on as normal). Stomach was prodded. Blood tests ensued. Stern looks were given. My liver, it seems, is not a happy liver. ‘Do you drink much?’ my GP asked (unlike the last one I haven’t socialised with her, so it was not the stupid question it might seem). ‘Noooo,’ said I, all wide-eyed innocence, then conceded. ‘Well, not compared to most people.’ Given that people round here drink so much that they regularly pass out it was hardly a reassuring statement. I’m being packed off for an ultrasound, more blood has been extracted and I’ve been told to lay off the booze.

3. Drinking like a fish has very serious consequences. A local hardened drinker was found in the river the other day. Dead. An awful, sad, and cautionary, tale. I am going to learn to love my liver. I will not drink. I will detox. This is hugely embarrassing of course as I have written not one, but two books on detoxing (see sidebar). My shame knows no bounds.

4. All beauty is transient. There I was, in a rare moment of peace, sitting on the bench looking at the sheer stunning gorgeous perfection of an iris (or some such – it was deepest indigo and filled my soul with joy at its mere existence, in our pond). This is it, thought I, a transcendent moment. Then a blur of white flashed past, a wave of smelly pond water hit me and within twenty seconds the iris was in tatters and the pond littered with debris. Asbo Jack – Grand Master of the Murder of Zen.

5. Always sit at the back. How did I forget this most important of all rules? How come I found myself (OK, not quite at the front, but solidly in the middle) in the direct sight-line of the headmaster at the school concert, sweating profusely (because had forgotten I had a black bra on when I put on the pale top so had to keep on the thick cardigan to cover it up) and gulping with silent hysteria at ‘Fiddle fun’ (what is it about violins that make me laugh?). Even Adrian was horrified.

6. When in doubt, pass the buck. Too much choice is the scourge of modern living. I’ve eradicated most of it by limiting my purchasing to the local shops but it’s tricky when it comes to paint. I’ve been driving A and J mad with my endless bits of paper painted in various shades of white. What is the difference between Indian White and Wiltshire White? Someone at Dulux knows. In the end I couldn’t bear it anymore. ‘So which white do you want?’ asked the decorators. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ I admitted. ‘What do you reckon?’ Five minutes later it’s chosen. Looks great. Why did I waste all that effort?