As I sit here writing this I should be putting the towels in the washing machine. I should be sorting through the rest of the washing, putting colours on one side, whites on another and delicates somewhere else. I should be hand washing the delicates.
I should be reading the children five books six times a book, squeezing out metres and metres of Play Doh poop out of the new Play Doh poop maker, building a train track for precipitating disasters, digging the sword for the Playmobil pirate out of the dust bag in the vacuum cleaner and teaching them to play the violin and piano in unison. (The children or the pirates, either way it’s my job)
I should be vacuuming, cleaning the kitchen, washing up and washing down the floor. I should be ironing.
I should be sorting my drawers so I don’t go into the jumble every morning and come out dressed like I’ve been to a jumble sale.
I should be organising the never-ending re-registration of my car and a savings account online.
I should be budgeting for the rest of the month and sending a long email to my friend who I haven’t seen in ages.
I should be baking something wholesome for the whole family.
I should be grooming the dog whilst paying the bills over the phone (“EIGHT ONE OH ONE..SIT!…no, sorry, not you”).
I should be writing up pitches and sending them to all the contacts I can muster and following it up with cheery positive phone calls that result in arse-aching rejection.
It’s endless, what I should be doing instead of writing this.
Or should I?