Lesson 42: being organised
I lose things. I’m a chronic misplacer; the part of my mind that logs crucial information, such as where I put my keys, is absent. If they make my last words my epitaph, it will simply read: “Has anyone seen my phone?”
To organised people, the keepers of things, I’m an aberration. I think the keepers look at people like me, the losers, and think we must be living in a 24-hour music video and simply cannot be bothered, amid our cocktails and cascade of well-oiled butts, to organise things. They think it’s a matter of disrespect, that we assume someone else will pick up the pieces.
Far from it. I’ve developed strategies to cope. I buy multiples (I have four phone-chargers: home, office, handbag, spare). I don’t own anything expensive. But the system is not foolproof and things go awry. My punishment? Death by jobsworth.
At my gym, if you lose your pass you have to personally ask the manager for a replacement. The third time, he gave me stick, tutting and sighing. The fourth time, I offered to pay. “Silly girl,” he said. The fifth, I cancelled my membership. I thought it a better option than going postal in the gym, applying protein powder to my face like warpaint and lobbing Swiss balls at him.
Jobsworths are my kryptonite, a powerful nemesis. They make me defeat myself. They push, push, push – a snark here, a patronising comment there – until the rageful demon that lives within me takes control. Black eels shoot out of my eyes, thunder from my fingertips. At that point, I’ve lost.
And real adults know there is no sense in arguing. Short of a brain transplant making me better organised, I must learn to take my punishment; to eat humble pie. Ah, the bitter taste of peace.
