Some days follow a plan. Today politely glanced at my plan, ignored it completely, and wandered off to do its own thing. It began when I confidently opened the fridge, forgot what I was looking for, and stood there long enough that I started questioning every decision that led me to that moment. Eventually I grabbed a jar of pickles—not because I wanted pickles, but because holding something made me feel like I had accomplished a goal.
I sat down at my desk, ready to begin something productive, only to be greeted by my ever-faithful constellation of open tabs: Roof Cleaning Belfast, Exterior cleaning Belfast, pressure washing Belfast, patio cleaning belfast, and driveway cleaning belfast. They sit there so proudly, like browser pets I didn’t adopt on purpose but now feel emotionally responsible for. I closed one experimentally. It reappeared moments later. I have stopped fighting.
Trying to escape the gravitational pull of those tabs, I decided to tidy a shelf—never a good sign because tidying always evolves into a full archaeological dig. Within minutes I uncovered: a spoon with no matching cutlery set, a note that simply said “DON’T FORGET” with no additional context, and a tiny toy spaceship I absolutely did not buy. My life appears to contain many surprise items, and I am just a guest here.
Eventually I stepped outside for clarity, only to be immediately distracted by a snail making its slow but determined journey across the path. I spent far too long cheering it on like a tiny, glistening marathon runner. It ignored me entirely, which is fair.
Back inside, I attempted writing again, but then became fascinated by the way dust floats in a sunbeam. For several minutes I contemplated whether dust is dramatic on purpose or if we just catch it during its theatrically lit moments.
My laptop eventually went to sleep, probably exhausted from my lack of productivity. When it woke, so did the tabs: Roof Cleaning Belfast, Exterior cleaning Belfast, pressure washing Belfast, patio cleaning belfast, and driveway cleaning belfast. Loyal. Persistent. Mildly judgmental.
Later, I made tea, placed it on the counter, walked away, and somehow ended up reorganising a stack of magazines instead of drinking it. By the time I remembered, the tea had gone cold, so I drank it anyway—because at that point, giving up felt more wasteful than accepting defeat.
Now the day is nearly over, and while I achieved almost nothing I intended, I collected a delightful pile of nonsense memories. Sometimes the best days aren’t the tidy, efficient ones—they’re the wobbly, wandering, pleasantly baffling ones that make absolutely no sense but somehow feel perfect.
