Lists, glorious lists...

I love a list. I couldn't survive without lists. Well, I could, but I'd be in a permanent flap and miss deadlines and there'd be nothing to eat for dinner. Since I was a little girl they've been a crucial part of my life - stuff to pack for a holiday, things I hoped to do when I was a grown up, plus lists of favourites - songs, TV shows, possessions. I diddled away with my lists, paying less attention to them during my chaotic twenties - and then kicking into serious list-making on an industrial scale in '97, when our twins were born.

Suddenly, living haphazardly with nothing in the fridge but a lump of cheese and some suspect milk didn't seem quite so much fun. One simple factor seemed to dictate whether the day was relatively disaster-free - and that was whether I was organised or not. Which meant writing down everything that seemed crucial to the survival of these two tiny people.

For one thing, I had to learn to cook. In my previous, pre-babies existence I used to buy ready-made bolognaise sauce (nasty) when friends were coming over and bury the boxes at the bottom of the bin. Now it was necessary to cook proper meals, which meant having the right stuff in, which in turn meant remembering to buy it all - thank God for lists! Armed with a notebook, a pen and a Jamie Oliver cookbook, I slowly managed to cobble together reasonably okay-ish things to eat.

There was work to keep track of, too - I carried on freelancing a little during my sons' nap times, if I could manage to synchronise them (brandy helped. JOKE!!). Notebooks were filled with magazine feature ideas, plot outlines and titles for books I hoped to write one day (I had yet to write anything longer than 3,000 words). Floundering in the fug of early motherhood, I listed ways to rejoin the human race: Drink water. Sort hair. Change out of dressing gown. There were lists, often scrawled in the night, about how to be a better person: Don't smoke. Donate blood. Read Crime And Punishment. Be nicer to J. Oh, and the usual daily stuff: Eggs. Sterilising Solution. WINE!!! 

During those frantic days, the very act of writing things down was somehow reassuring in itself. A list says, 'This can - and will - all be done.' It's excellent for calming the brain. The act of crossing things off, as any list maniac knows, is immensely satisfying. A friend of mine scores things off her list before she's done them - to make herself ruddy well get on with it.

What I love about lists is the fact that they're always lying around - forever handy - to be added to the instant you think of something. Dog licking foot obsessively? Call vet. Bad smell in shower? Get stinky egg drain stuff. I list everything: books to read, films to see, Ways To Improve Our House. As I'm in the process of selling Mum's house for her, that has a list of its own. My list making goes through different phases: in notebooks, on my phone or laptop, on an array of Post-It notes plastered all over my desk. If someone were to steal all my pens, phone and laptop, I'd probably write one in lipstick.

Well aware of my love of lists, Jimmy bought me a brilliant book called Lists of Note, compiled by Shaun Usher (Canongate). Among the 125 lists are the scribblings of Jack Kerouac (his list is entitled, 'Belief & Technique For Modern Prose') and F. Scott Fitzgerald ('Thing To Worry About').

Marilyn Monroe's list ('Must Make Effort To do') includes:

Go to my class on my own always - without fail 
Work whenever possible - on class assignments - and always keep working on the acting exercises 
If possible take at least one class at university - in literature 
Try to find someone to take dancing from - body work (creative) 
Try to enjoy myself as much as I can - I'll be miserable enough as it is

And Woody Guthrie felt these things were important:

Work more and better 
Clean teeth if any 
Drink scant if any 
Shine shoes 
Change socks 
Help win war - beat fascism 
Love everybody 
Wake up and fight 

That's Woody's list in full, above. Makes my own to-do list (mum/vet/blog/accounts/Gracie b'day/cheese/J's shoes/call Carrie) seem pretty mundane. But I guess that's the whole point. Whether you're writing down things to achieve by the end of the decade, or just the ingredients for dinner tonight, everything feels more achievable when set out in a neat little stack of words.

Dresses are the thing! (plus my love affair with tights)...

I was packing for a weekend jaunt to Liverpool last night when it hit me... just take dresses. I LOVE dresses. I especially love them in winter when you can wear them with chunky cardis and - best of all - thick black opaque tights.

Was there ever a cleverer fashion invention, apart from shoes and the bra? Imagine flicking through a fashion magazine and reading this startling announcement: 'Pretty soon, a new kind of hosiery will be invented which will have an intently cheering effect. If your legs are feeling a bit chunky, they'll seem perfectly un-chunky once you pull these babies on. They are instantly slimming and miraculously flattering. If you're as hairy limbed as Corsican boar, no matter - nothing manages to poke its way through 50 dernier nylon. And if your legs are merely pallid of hue (as mine are - ie, not merely white but verging on blue, like the lights they have in those mysterious Turkish social clubs named after football teams), it doesn't matter a jot because everything will be blacked out, black as can be. Veiny bits, weird bruises and knobbly knees: all blacked out.' 

If I'd read that back in the late 70s I'd have been very pleased indeed.  In fact, as far as I can recall, we had to wait until the mid-'80s for proper sturdy opaques to appear. I certainly remember the fashion department becoming quite dizzy with excitement over Wolfords - Fashion Ed Karen's preferred brand - when I worked at Just Seventeen. Soon, the entire staff's legs were encased in thick, matt black nylon (apart from Andrew's, Andre's and Scoffer's - ie the lads. But I saw them them glancing over, jealously). I do always go for black, although more adventurous friends sometimes step out in teal, plum - even red. They look very bold and dashing. They're just not quite my style.

Anyway, I started off intending to write about dresses, and how great they are because they remove a tiresome step in the decision-making process: ie, what goes with what. I've never been terribly good at putting things together, and a dress means you don't have to bother with any of that. The dress above is my current favourite: Hobbs, but from a charity shop. Can I just add how delightful it is when you see something you love in Oxfam, and it fits perfectly? I mean the odds are pretty low really. So it's far more satisfying than just wandering into a high street store and selecting your size off the rail.

In fact, it's as pleasing as the first day of Tights Season. I have never understood the appeal of blamming wildlife with a big gun - but I'd imagine that those who enjoy it experience a similar thrill when the grouse season starts. But never mind that. We are now in the thick of opaques season which, in our chilly northern climate, can easily stretch to about nine tenths of the year. Hurrah for tights!