The clusterfuck of life admin, revisited. 

It’s been Procrastination City Arizona here this week, hence the “old newsy” feel of this post – I started it yesterday when my cup overflowed-eth with good humour. Today I could drop-kick Bambi into next week and not give a shit. So here, for what it’s worth, which is shit-all really, is yesterday’s shitty news:

Following an accidental two hour après-tea nap, (a lovely Moroccan lamb dish prepared by Heather, if you must know) I decided, after I’d stared into space, absentmindedly scratching my arse for what felt like an eternity,  and worked out what day/time it was, to tackle the clusterfuck of life admin. 

I moved here 13 months ago, and still haven’t changed my address for everything (except the very legal stuff, in case DVLA, the Police, MI5, GCHQ, yer maw, or the Prime Minister (not entirely who the PM is so kept that vague – I’d be shit at a test for dementia “Who’s the Prime Minister, Lindsey?” “Ummm…BANANA!”) are reading this) (sorry again about all the bracket opening and closing all over the bloody shop – for somebody who has a hairy fit over the wrong use of you and you’re I appear to be very gung-ho about my own grammar in this blog but then again a) I’m typing it on my phone and b) I never said it was good at it so shit off with your judgy-judgy opinions) CLOSE BRACKET CLOSE BRACKET CLOSE BRACKET. There. Shut up. 

Back to the clusterfuck of life admin, if we must. It really is an arsehole of a thing. Every couple of years I drag it all out then get a great big sad and hide it all away again. It drains me of energy, which has been a great excuse for my laziness for a whole raft of essential life skills including:

  • Getting up in the morning unless it’s a Saturday or Sunday, or I’ve a doctor’s appointment for a fresh imaginary ailment.
  • Putting things away. 
  • Making visitors cups of tea.
  • Having visitors at all. 
  • Small talk.
  • Phoning anybody about anything.
  • Sewing that hole in the elbow of my favourite black frock.
  • Posting things if it requires dealing with an actual question-asking person. 
  • Anything else not included above unless it’s to do with fannying around with nail polish or makeup, or napping. I’m good at them. 

This energy draining excuse came about after one of those pointless money-wasting exercises carried out by a previous employer in the name of professional development where you answer various questions about your reactions and feelings to things (a bit like a quiz in the Jackie circa 1969 “how flirty are you?”) then it spits out a forty page report claiming you’re a psychopath and you go “ooooh that’s spooky – that’s me alright!” Of course it’s you, ya fanny, you’ve just answered a million pointless questions about yourself. (Mine said I had a strong moral compass – they must’ve got my answers mixed up with Mother Theresa because I’ve the morals of an alley cat). 

So, drained of energy, I gathered up all the clusterfucky life admin, including a myriad receipts for household appliances long since discarded but not including the stuff I actually need like MOTs, car insurance details and birth certificates. I suspect I shredded them when I had that shredding fetish last year. I find shredding satisfying and dare I say it arousing. Destruction is seductive, don’t you find? I’d be a great arsonist. If I could be arsed. 

I sorted everything into piles – mountains of unopened mail, payslips going back to 2003, (including the mother of all payslips from 2012 which included an enjoyable redundancy payment thank you very much), pension statements from every employer I’ve ever worked for but whose eventual output will just about keep me in Marlboro Lights for a week a year, and an amusing financial report from a financial adviser who offered to conduct a health check into my financial – how should I put this – “affairs”.  I must have the appearance of a woman with an investment portfolio but the smile drained from his face when he realised the extent of my profligacy and lack of retirement planning. I never saw him again. 

The sorting of things into piles took a good hour, at the end of which I stood back, admired my handiwork and skipped to the kitchen for a celebratory hot Ribena, by way of the bedroom where I’d a nice pile of fresh folders and a Sharpie I was saving for just such an occasion. Unfortunately Tucker had decided to have his five minute nightly mental run round the house and ran right through my piles, as it were. It’s all back in the cupboard again. Arson has never seemed so appealing. (Not Tucker, the clusterfuck of life admin. Although I bet roast Tucker would smell oddly appetising). 

Footnote: today’s ailment – Imposter Syndrome. This is an actual thing. I feel like an imposter at everything, including being an adult. Check back for tomorrow’s imaginary ailment. 

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