To do List

I want to clear everything out again. Everything is looking decidedly pokey. I want to sort through everything and give things to the charity shop. I want to find a place for everything, but it seems impossible. I find myself sitting on steps, knees to my chest in doorways, neither in nor out, looking in for things to throw away. But this feeling is premature. It isn't that long since I did this, sorted through clothes and got rid of loads. Rearranged everything so I could fit in.
I think it is an overspill from sorting through poems, editing, re-working, looking again, and I'm doing this almost everywhere. I find myself wanting to put useful but critical post-it notes everywhere I go- on the neighbours fencepost 'This is looking dry and could do with a coat of creosote','If you shut your back gate it looks more like you are home', on the kettle at my friends house 'If you moved the mugs from the bottom cupboard it would be easier on your back. You could make a cuppa in 50 per cent less moves'. I want to do this all around the house- cover the place in question marks on bits of paper, problems of everyday life to be solved- what is a good method for storing ties?, where should gloves and scarves go?, how do you stop tights tying eachother into one great big ball? Mostly, what will this collection be called? What is missing? What still needs writing, what must go?

Everything does look dog-eared. I think the real reason is the lack of light, it's been a blah sort of winter, no snow to brighten things up. I miss snow. Last week I walked round to slimming world and it was snowing. The sky was busy but everything was quiet. People scurried indoors. When I came out the meeting it was gone. Is this it? When I opened the curtains next morning I felt excited. The snow would be waiting. It was like opening a present wrapped in sparkly paper and finding only an empty box inside when the snow was a no show. When I was younger I never liked snow. I remembered the ordeal it was at school, how the big boys would pelt you with showballs on the way to school. Snow their hands had rubbed into ice, snow that left red marks on your skin and slithered down your spine. Your eyes would water. Your hands turned to marble, as you ran, ran, and when you couldn't run anymore found a vestibule and curled into a ball till the boys got bored. As a young adult I was practical. With snow comes caution, the wearing of less pretty shoes, the zipping into woollies. I lived in a damp flat, hunched by a little electric fire. How was I supposed to get these wet things dry? The snow slid from the roof in sweeps. I could see my breath and windows wept.

I was too busy being practical to look at the snow. I've changed somewhere. I don't know when. I'm still practical, when I'm not looking out the window and waiting for the snow.