Lists, and their lists.

Lists; because no human ever, except for probably Stephen Hawking, and those bizarre children joining Mensa, can actually remember every relevant and semi-significant detail.

I got into an early list habit, jotting down homework that needed completion, and housework that wanted doing in exchange for pocket money. I have never weighted completion of listed tasks with any real importance, acknowledgment was, for the best part half the labour.

Lists of clothes, shopping lists, lists I showed my friends, lists I didn’t show anybody. Lists I couldn’t stomach reading again myself (nobody should ever make that list, you were young and single, sometimes not. We all make mistakes). I kept some, I threw others away. I probably have a list of all of them somewhere.

For the best part they get completed. The devil is in the detail… The pen you write with, the medium you write on, envelopes, business cards, bananas. Some you keep and use time and again, others you’ll scrap instantly. They’re a brain bin, they remedy a distracted mind.

I’d leave the house with no shoes.

M