Pondery: a quandary

So it will come as no news to any of you that I am not by nature a planner, and I do not organise. In my work, I can make a virtue of this: there is a whole school of writers arguing for what I do, mapping as I go, discovering the story step by step and day by day. I may be at the extreme end of the argument, but even so.

In the house? Not so much a virtue. I live in clutter & chaos, and I really can't blame it all on the boys. Some, to be sure - but they're only marginally responsible for the utter disorganisation of my paperwork, and really not at all for the books. Oh, the books...

Accounts? Chuck everything in a box, sort it out once a year because I have to. I understand that others do this differently. I have friends who reconcile their cheque-books. I have self-employed friends who actually took a course in double-entry bookkeeping, and then do it.

Travel? Chuck clothes and books into a case at the last minute, preferably in the half-hour before I actually go out of the door. Packing the night before is a nightmare to me.

And so on and so forth. This is how I live, and I'm kind of used to it.

Moving to California? Not so much a last-minute enterprise. Procrastination may be an art form, but emigration I suspect of being a science. Order and discipline, thinking things through in advance and then getting them done. Eek. I am so not going to be good at this.

Karen suggests that in the matter of wedding presents, we invite friends to our separate houses and ask them to take stuff away. Hee. It would be a start. Also, potentially, fun. I run my eye across the bookshelves (for reference, I have c 600 feet of shelved books in this house) and think I should sort them into those I must keep and those I can get rid of; and then subdivide into those I should sell, those I should donate to the Lit & Phil, those my friends can have their pick of...

Only then I trip over that little word "sort". Which means organise, make decisions, choose. Which is the stuff I am not good at and trip over and run away from, see you, 'bye...

I've been telling myself for a while that I could do it one three-foot shelf a day, that's not so much, it wouldn't take five minutes. Except that I'm probably already too late for that now; I don't think I have 200 days. Mmph. I need a new plan. No doubt one will turn up. Sooner or later. Or, hell, I'll just busk... No, wait.

Eek.

[EtA: I do keep my spices in alphabetical order. That's only six feet of shelving, but still. Treble-stacked. I'm not quite sure if this is a sign of hope, or the other thing.]

In other news

Karen and I had a whole conversation last night about whether or not I could actually live with a blue car. I think that's rather sweet, actually. I also think I was entirely reasonable and rational about it. Then she went out and bought a black one. Phew. All is well in Chazworld.

Books: another thunk

Ooh, I'm sharp this morning. Everybody lends books, right? It had just never occurred to me, this is an automatic shelf-space-saver. We just need to formalise it. "Yes, darling, of course you can borrow Reamde. Just remember the house rule: you can't bring it back until you've borrowed something else. Of equal thickness."

Um, whoops?

I should have predicted this. Now that I have begun to think seriously post about the mechanics of moving, I have spent All Day thinking about moving, and hardly written a thing. Just a page so far, mostly about mushroom ketchup. And then I persuaded myself that I was stuck, and needed to walk home so's I could think about things and unstick myself; and then spent the entire walk (when I wasn't bumping into friends) thinking about moving. Surprise.

One of the nice things about living in Newcastle for thirty years? I can hardly walk through town without being hailed. Happened twice this afternoon, resulting in two long chats about moving, and getting married, and so forth. I would add it to the long list of things-I-shall-miss-and-mourn in California, only, y'know. My first time ever in San Francisco, there we were walking down the street and a voice cries, "Hey, Chaz...!"

Anyway. Now I have to go out again, I need to buy a chicken.* Maybe I'll get to do some thinking this time.

*I have a quandary, or perhaps it's a challenge. A thing to learn, at any rate. I know how to roast a chicken to produce a crispy skin, and I know how to leave a roasted chicken to rest after its ovenly exertions, to allow it to resorb its juices. What I don't know is how to achieve both of these at once. Leave the bird for as little as ten minutes after it comes out of the oven, and the steam of it uncrispifies the skin. I find.