Filing

I hate filing almost as much as I hate form filling. And I HATE form filling. I always get it wrong, no matter how many times I read the instructions, and will invariably put my forename where my surname should be or put the post code in the wrong box.

I look at the pile of paperwork as it steadily grows, nagging at my conscious to just get it organised and put away. I can almost read what is written through the envelope, but I put off opening them, knowing in my heart that there is ‘stuff’ to be attended to which will eat into my time and force me to think of finance, insurance, business and planning when all I am inclined to do today is eat, sleep, walk, chat and potter in the garden.

I have made a good start though and have reduced the pile by up to 2/3 as most of it was junk mail: offers for life insurance, 0% credit cards and catalogues that only make me want to spend money I don’t have because of the lifestyle they are offering. Images of women clad in the clothes I love oozing charisma and confidence, in  beachside locations I can never afford.

So I steel myself to throw away the extraneous clutter, breathe a sigh of relief at the re-cycling pile and then look at the remaining pile of paper that does need attention: bank statements, council tax forms, mortgage advice looking for a home. It will take at least another 45mins to find the folders, add the paperwork and put the folders away. But by the time I finish this, make the bed with linen that has been on the line all day and smells amazing, walk Jack and wander down to meet family, the pile will still be there tomorrow.

Oh must make time to file my nails.

Filing – a poem

I wonder where to put you

quite where do you belong?

Are you in the picture –

or only in a song?

Is this all day dream

or are you truly there?

I cannot make sense of this

and wonder should I care.