iRelle

There’s a calendar in my room. It hangs on my wardrobe door, where a whole month can pass without me looking at it, much less using it. The other day, my sister pointed out that it was still open at the month of November. I pointed out that the year was 2008. We laughed. It’s still hanging there.

My blatant disregard for calendars doesn’t just extend to this instance. Until a few months ago I had my 2008 study calendar on the inside of my wardrobe door, and I have a filofax that I look at perhaps twice a month, except during the first week of uni (when I write my timetable and due dates in it, until I can rely on other people to safely direct me to class and the assignment drop-off boxes on time!). Other than that, when I get the occasional urge, I usually find myself writing in things after they’ve happened (‘lunch with Claire, 1p.m. Friday – written in at about 5p.m. Friday). Our family calendar in the kitchen, however, is well-loved – medication times, doctor’s appointments, chemo appointments, visitor’s flights… I think there’s just about something written on every day. But I still don’t use it. The one calendar I do take notice of is the one that hangs opposite the toilet, with birthdays on it, but that’s because I don’t really have a choice.

The fact remains that I seem to have an aversion to calendars, and I’m not entirely sure why. I’d like to say that it’s because I’m a free spirit, without a care in the world and oblivious to times and dates and other such trivial things. I suspect the real reason, though, is something to do with being unorganised – or maybe just that nothing happens in my life, so I don’t have anything to fill in – and there’s nothing more depressing than an empty calendar.

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