I haven’t got time for lockdown to end yet... what about my long ‘to do’ list?

I KNOW we’ve been in lockdown for just six and a bit weeks but there are days I can’t remember having lived any other way.

The Husband says it feels like an eternity but I’m guessing that’s down to being Cooped UpWith Carole (see what I did there) that’s making him feel like that.Although goodness knows why, because I really am very easy to live with. (My tongue is currently jammed in my cheek.)

But in the past week the murmurings that there’s going to be some relaxation of the rules are getting louder and we’re now told Boris is going to make an announcement soon about the specifics.Yet instead of that making me feel elated it’s actually sent me into a blind panic. I’VE GOT SO MUCH TO DO BEFORE I’M LET OUT.

How can that be, you might ask – and

I only wish I knew. Because I’ve just checked – it was March 23 when the locks went on – and everything I promised myself I’d do from that date, I haven’t.

I said I’d get the garden ready for summer – instead I had a gardener in for three hours and the only other thing I’ve done in the garden since is lie in it.

The Husband has cut the lawn a couple of times but at the start of this he promised to do a number on the lawn and get rid of all the moss and weeds – he hasn’t.Actually he did do a few hours one afternoon ripping up some big weeds behind the house but he pulled a muscle in his back so that was the end of him channelling Alan Titchmarsh.

I promised myself I’d go into the loft and sort out the huge bags up there which are all full of stuff I thought it was vital to keep – so vital that I have no idea what’s in them.

I promised myself I’d read endless books. Before lockdown I’m ashamed to say I hadn’t read a book in months but this was going to be my time to put that right.Well, I haven’t. Since March I’ve read 30 pages of Marian Keyes’s novel,The Break… and nothing else.

I also promised myself I’d not get fat – well fatter. I have. I think I’ve put on about eight pounds but I don’t know exactly because I still haven’t had the courage to buy a pair of scales to find out. I promised I’d touch up the paint in the utility room, one wall of which I’d used as a tester board a few months ago while choosing shades for the living room and kitchen. So now there are about 10 different shades of Farrow & Ball whites on the wall (which aren’t really white at all) which I have to cover up.

So what the hell have I been doing for the last six weeks? Truth is I’ve been working quite hard, of course, writing for you guys and doing loads of telly. But all the jobs I’d told myself I had to get done because I thought I’d have oodles of times to do them... remain un-done.

So now, before lockdown is relaxed, I’m frantically making lists about what I need to do before I reconnect with the world. And it’s stressing me out.

The Husband, of course, isn’t panicking. He’s made no lists at all. Not at the start. Not now. He’s spent the past six weeks studiously avoiding the jobs he knows I want him to do.

The idea he would just do them without being asked (or nagged) is inconceivable. He just waits until he knows I’m about to lose my rag then he pretends it was his idea to go do whatever it is.

It’s not just getting stuff done that’s the problem. I’m actually worried about how

I’ll feel when I do rejoin the world. I don’t want to throw myself into situations with people when I don’t know where they’ve been or who they’ve been in contact with.

But that’s a conversation for another day. For now I need to get on with my lists deciding which jobs to prioritise.

That said, at the time of writing this, it’s early evening and I’m thinking I could just have a few crisps and a small glass of Prosecco before I start. But then isn’t that what I’ve been doing every night for the past six weeks?