My “Don’t Do It” List

Although I have tried very hard not to make lists since losing my flowery Filofax, I haven’t been entirely successful. Without realising it, I have been mentally compiling a list of things that I will never do. I know that this isn’t in keeping with the self-improvement spirit of our age, but I think that delusions clutter our path and we need to clear them away.

I recently listened to a podcast about a woman called Jini Reddy, who had spent five days alone at the top of a remote mountain in the Pyrenees with only her tent, drinking water and a talisman to ward off danger. Her aim was to achieve self-knowledge and a deeper connection with the landscape, and she was so successful that it changed the course of her life. It certainly seems to have worked for her, but I can’t imagine wanting anything enough to spend five days by myself at the top of a mountain with no food and in constant danger of encountering the local Yeti. I am resigned to living with limited self-knowledge and a semi-detached relationship with nature.

Furthermore, I will not be making my own bread. Why would I when Tesco makes such delicious tiger loaves?

Many people have a vague idea that they’d like to write a novel some day. It is said that everyone has a book in them, but I think that in most cases it should probably stay there. I am one of those people. I have no stories to tell whatsoever. The author Joanne Harris has written a book about writing and gives suggestions to encourage aspiring writers. Ideas, she says, are all around us: for example, you see a woman running for a bus – imagine where she might be going. I’d simply be hoping that she caught it and, if pushed, could speculate that she might be going home or perhaps to work. I don’t think it’s the basis for a great work of fiction. Hilary Mantel doesn’t need to worry about the competition.

Growing veggies should be on my ‘don’t-even-consider-it’ list, but for some reason I cling to the dream of eating produce fresh from the garden. I can just see myself popping out to the veg patch with a trug over my arm and picking fresh peas for supper. So, despite years of failure, I still plant seeds of hope. One of five things then happens: 1) birds come and eat the seeds before they have a chance to germinate; 2) they don’t germinate because they expired in 2015; 3) the seeds do germinate, but I forget to water them and they die; 4) the seeds start to grow, I remember to water them and then the juicy little seedlings are eaten by an assortment of caterpillars, slugs, snails and flies; or 5) the seeds germinate and grow,  I remember to water them, the local insects inexplicably fail to eat them and we actually have fresh vegetables ready to pick and eat. I then realise that these plants which I have lovingly tended will provide us with enough peas for exactly one meal. I really need to have a word with myself.