It's Sunday, a cold mid-morning a little more than two months ago, and I'm attempting to fit everything - my entire life as it exists at this moment - into a chocolate-brown plastic in-tray. Theoretically, this isn't as difficult as it sounds. Anything that isn't where it should be, or that represents a project or agreement with myself that's pending, goes into the in-tray for future processing. Papers stacked around the office? That's easy . . . into the in-tray. Bank statements and bills in the big broken boxfile? Into the in-tray. Unopened letters? In-tray. Obviously I can't put the actual shower - which I intend to treat with a clear waterproof sealant - into the in-tray. So I write down "shower sealant" on a small piece of paper and put that into the in-tray, along with the other small pieces of paper that say things like "spare tyre", "leaves in drain" and "radio script". I'm emptying my mind of worries.
It doesn't feel that way, though. In fact, the whole process is so overwhelming I'm actually considering trying to put everything back again. Except now I can't remember where it all came from. I'm panicking, the paper mountain's head-high and I've lost the chocolate brown plastic in-tray somewhere underneath.
