This year I successfully invested a couple of hours sorting out piles of accumulated paper, the detritus hidden under tables in the front room and chronically occupying the so-called 'work surface' in the kitchen. It brought more rewards than the smug self-congratulation of having done some domestic chore.
It brought about the rearrangement of the speakers from the CD player and I'm sure they sound better now with more distance between them. I tested it out first with Robert Wylkynson's Jesu Autem Transiens which benefits from the thirteen voices that begin with one, gradually build to thirteen and recede back to one again. I convinced myself of an improvement, not being much of a hi-fidelity fetishist but seeing no reason why music shouldn't sound as good as it can.
But I did find letters and cards that brought back snapshots of what my life was like, say, in 2003. Good Grief, and grief plays a big part in some of it, I hardly recognize my life in those days though it's hard to say if for better or worse, it was just different.
But here is the original manuscript of the poem, The Cathedrals of Liverpool, concerning a visit there in 2005. This fascinating document shows how nearly fully-formed the poem was on arrival with not much crossing out or re-arrangement of words or phrases and that is what it was like.
I should probably be ashamed that it has lurked for 12 years in a pile of various papers, not because it should have been more carefully preserved but because the room could probably have been tidied up more often than it has. However, I'm not. Perhaps if I'd spent more time regularly making sure there was a place for everything and everything was in its place, I'd have read less books, played fewer records, not seen as many horse races or not written a novel and even if I won't be remembered for any of those things, I wouldn't want to be remembered for the diligence of my housework.
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Meanwhile, I am indebted to Gillian of London who sends a list gathered from her colleagues at work entitled Hatred, asurvey of personal pet hates. I'm surprised there's not more to do in the private sector where I understood they were naturally more interested in efficiency, cost cutting and focus than the public sector where such things are treated like some vague school project.
I understand the premise very well while regretting that programmes like Room 101 and 99% of the material of stand-up comedians consist of moaning about stuff rather than the appreciation of things as happens in Private Passions, which is Radio 3's more music-related answer to Desert Island Discs.
It is clear from the lists that our Gillian is more prone to annoyance than the admirable, if somewhat disingenuous, Sarah who 'hates nothing'. But if Coldplay is such an obvious choice that it should be among a list of this that are already granted (like there would be nothing to be gained by listing Trump, Gove, Boris, cold calling, Clarkson, word clouds, corporate mission statements and the internal combustion engine), they do identify Radio 4 comedy, hashtagging, cat people and upward inflection and I particularly admire Caitlin who is sufficiently against the grain to nominate sunshine.
More than that, I would worry about the comprehensiveness of Gillian's list, that suggests she has immense trouble navigating her way through the day, if I did not know her to be entirely sound of mind and, yes, I agree with many of her targets.
For me, musically, it begins with Queen and includes the jazz that Radio 3 plays on Saturday at tea time.
It seems that interviewees have suddenly abandoned the automatic verbal tics, 'Listen' or 'Look', that I think originated in Australian cricketers, and replaced it with, 'Yes, No'. It is mainly jockeys that I hear saying it but that's because I hear more jockeys interviewed than any other section of the community. Politicians are obviously beyond the remit of the question but should not be asllowed to say they are 'going to be clear about this' and any use of the recondite phrase 'going forward' should be severely dealt with going forward.
There is the bloke who is always hoovering the aisles of the local Tesco Express who thinks that his job is a higher priority than me looking at the available bread.
I dealt with virtue signalling recently.
Performance poets by which I do mean Kate Tempest and not John Cooper-Clarke.
And the way that columnists, from the wonderful Vicky Coren or her husband, to her malicious brother, only stretch out to the required word count by making desperate lists. But beneath contempt of all columnists is Giles Smith, of The Times, who needs to be told that he is the worst Danny baker tribute act in the world and there are opportunities for his sort working for Uber. And if Oliver Kamm ever makes anything other than the same grammatical point in his column, I'll gladly start reading him again.
And I'd love it if either the BBC Music Magazine could be a bit more than a glossy coffee table adornment with a CD attached or, preferably, Gramophone could have a CD with it.
I'm not keen on the ablative absolute either; the fact that there's no point going anywhere anymore; films, and, once you get into your rhythm, I can see how this can get out of control and I'd rather say I'm never happier than having the comfortably predictable Danny Baker Show, switch over to Record Review, with the Times crossword looking do-able, a good thing lined up at 7/4 in the novice hurdle at Wincanton, a couple of books to read and all is right with the world.
But, for me, it's films, unless they're French or old, the 'special effects', the franchises, and the complete lack of anything else to do while you are expected to watch them.
