Today in my lunch hour I scoffed a trough of salad while I wrote lists of uninteresting things I have done. They include
86 plane trips
24 viewings of Gone With The Wind
140 readings of Picnic at Hanging Rock
1 reading of The End Of The Affair (and that was one too many)
1,200 blood tests
800 serves of vegemite on toast
30,000 cups of tea (that doesn't seem enough)
Five pairs of trainers in ten years
Seven cats in twenty years
Today I wore an ivory silk blouse I thrifted for four dollars, a Veronica Maine skirt which is made from an interesting blend of silk and cotton, a Jigsaw belt that doesn't appear capable of wearing out, Aerosole shoes which seem to grow more loose as the day progresses and a pleasing necklace of black and blue glass that I bought at the Portobello market in London exactly three years ago. I look dour, but mostly I am trying prevent smiling with a mouth studded with lettuce and seeds.
I calculate that I have worn this blouse twice, and will wear it many, many more times unless a spot of chili or coffee changes the course of history. The skirt I've worn at least dozen times, and every time I put it on I forget that it crumples like the billy-o and is IMMUNE to any iron at any temperature.
Uninteresting things I couldn't calculate include the number of pens I've owned, the number of op shops I've trawled, how many litres of shampoo I've ultimately rinsed down the drain, the number of times I've caught a train, the amount of weekly bus tickets I've left in pockets and washed before they had expired, the approximate weight of cheese flavoured snacks I've consumed and how many times I've listed to Tiny Dancer.
Some things, I suppose, you're better not knowing.