The only list worth making

I’ve never liked the concept of bucket lists, those pie-in-thesky collections of places to see/ things to do/challenges to meet before you shuffle off this mortal coil. Setting yourself up for disappointment is written all over this kind of venture. I suspect the secret of getting things done, now as never before in these days of limited time and increasingly onerous life commitments, is just to get on and do them, rather than talk about them mistily or write them down and instantly feel that in doing so, you have actually done something constructive.

Having spent several occasions recently, in a range of places and situations, musing on the fact that what I was subjecting myself to fell heavily into the category of: “That’s X hours of my life that I will never get back”, I have decided that the only answer is a reverse bucket list. Or maybe an upturned bucket list, like a kind of Oor Wullie-inspired menu of things I never, ever want or intend to do again in this world or the next.

Some things, of course, like death and taxes, will never go away so there’s no point fulminating/angsting about them. Don’t sweat the big stuff – it’s the small stuff that actually has far more power to do your head in. So I have made a vow that there are places I will not go, things I will not attempt and people I will refuse to put up with so that what time is left to me is not spent thinking about how to get round stuff I feel I should do, rather than things I actually want to pursue.

Think about it. It’s amazingly easy to come up with no-nos and never-agains. Like, using a communal changing room. Old hat, mayhap, but increasingly unpleasant as the years roll by. And there’s no excuse for it when you can order online. Except if one of your other Oor Wullie vows is never, ever to succumb to the pictures you see on websites of outfits that will not make you look like Amal Clooney because you don’t have the basic ingredients in the first place.

With fashion in mind, another promise to myself is not to hang on to clothes I haven’t worn (or fitted into) for at least five years. I have, in fact, evolved a foolproof way of making this happen. I tear through the wardrobe, drawers and cupboards like (and this dates me) a wee white tornado and chuck impossible garments into a black bin bag, which I then leave on the floor of my bedroom. If I manage to walk round it for three months without delving into the interior like a rat building a nest, it all goes to the charity shop. And good luck to them, I say.

Anything else? You bet. Never read another Booker Prize-winning novel.

Never fly with Ryanair. Never read anything about or watch Nigel Farage or Boris Johnson. Never listen to anyone but Luciano Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma. Never listen to The Lark Ascending, full stop. Give up Question Time. Refuse to be talked into seeing another production of The Magic Flute or The Pearl Fishers. Never pluck my eyebrows or get up earlier than I actually want to. Life really is too short. And finally, I am never, ever going to make another to-do list. This, dear readers, is a notto-do list so that doesn’t count. Done. Picture the scene... Picture the scene. The Significant Other and I are heading back from a short break in Yorkshire and are driving (well, he is, I’m happy to relate) through hellish wind, rain and general consternation on the M Whatever-it-is from Glasgow to Dundee. It’s Scotland in spring, what can I tell you?

It’s persisting down, the spray is like a tsunami every time we pass a vehicle higher than a Mini and the wipers aren’t coping very well. We soldier on.

Various vehicles career past at varyingly ridiculous speeds until (and we’re doing a respectable 60-odd) we are passed by an ice cream van, doing at least 100 miles an hour. Or maybe 99 if the driver was a real flake. And managing to avoid the cones…

Enough already. With the level of hysteria in our trusty Honda already simmering around volcanic levels, what ensues is the perfect illustration of the fact that we are indeed old farts who have been known to finish each other’s sentences. And not content with that, who have spent far too much time watching re-runs of classic comedy sketches from our obviously far from mis-spent youths.

Without a moment’s hesitation and not even a glance in each other’s direction, we chorused: “He won’t sell a lot of ice cream going at that speed…”

Picture: PA. Helen vows never to fly with Ryanair.