*Find out why fridge is making that noise
*Find and destroy Mabel’s gonorrhoea leaflets
*Find end scene from draft 12 about scuba-diving
*Teeth
Oh God. All these jobs will not actually fit into an hour, which is now twenty minutes.
OK. Am simply going to do ‘Quadrant Living’ like it says in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People and simply arrange the jobs into ‘four quadrants’:
2.45 p.m. You see. Much better!
2.50 p.m. Perhaps will go to the toilet. That is at least one of them.
2.51 p.m. Right, have been to the toilet now.
2.55 p.m. Oooh! Doorbell!
I opened the door, and Rebecca from across the road fell into the hallway, wearing a tiara, mascara smeared under her eyes, staring into space, clutching a list and a polythene bag full of egg sandwiches.
‘Do you want a fag?’ she said, in a strange, other-worldly voice. ‘I can’t go on.’
We went downstairs and slumped, staring into space, sucking on our fags like fishwives.
‘The annual Latin play,’ she said in a strange, disconnected voice.
‘Staff presents,’ I concurred dully. ‘Zombie Apocalypses.’ Then burst into a coughing fit as have not had a fag for five years apart from two puffs on a joint at Leatherjacketman’s party.
‘I think I’m having a full-on breakdown without anyone actually noticing,’ said Rebecca.
Suddenly leaped to my feet, stubbing out the fag, in inspirational frenzy.
‘It’s just a question of prioritizing into quadrants. Look!’ I said, thrusting my quadrant sheet under her nose.
She stared at the form, then burst into hysterical high-pitched giggles like someone in a mental hospital.
I suddenly had a brainwave. ‘It’s a State of Emergency!’ I said excitedly. ‘A cut-and-dried State of Emergency. Once a State of Emergency is declared, normal service is suspended and you don’t have to expect anything to be all right and you just need to do whatever you need to do to get through the emergency.’
‘Great!’ said Rebecca. ‘Let’s have a drinky. Just a little teensy-weensy one.’
I mean, it was only half a glass and really everything suddenly seemed much better, till she leaped up saying, ‘Oh my bloody God and fuck. I’m supposed to be on the school run,’ and ran out of the door, just as Roxster texted: <You’ve gone awfully quiet, Jonesey.>
Rebecca then reappeared for her egg sandwiches just as I remembered I was supposed to be on the school run as well. Ran upstairs, then downstairs, looking for the rice cakes, simultaneously texting Roxster: <I’m just confused by your text saying you’re confused.>
3.30 p.m. Back in car now. Oh, shit, have forgotten rice cakes.
Gaah, text from Roxster.
<Just a panic attack. Shall I call you tonight to discuss, my Precious Cornish Pasty?>
HE’S having a panic attack?
Ended up rushing from car to school in ungainly half-walking, half-running gait in middle of which Scandinavian tourists chose me – for unexplained reasons – to ask for directions. Panicking that they were trying to steal my time, I carried on walking determinedly whilst gesturing directions back to them. Oh God. Have let down country by being inhospitable to foreigners (though Scandinavia is in EU, I think?). But what is world coming to when one is more scared of passers-by stealing one’s time than one’s handbag?
9.30 p.m. No phone call from Roxster.
Oh God, oh God, he’s going to call and break up with me for not having a time machine.
10 p.m. Hate it when people delay phone calls because you know they are putting it off as they have to say what you don’t want to hear. Though Roxster hates phone calls anyway because I do too much talking and will not delay talking until the morning. Oh, phone call! Roxster!