There is a special kind of humour in the things we once thought were important. Not the big life decisions, not the dramatic “this will change everything” moments — but the tiny, random, oddly specific plans we wrote down and immediately forgot about. Today, I found one of those plans. Or rather… a list. A list with no title, no context, and no explanation — just five links, sitting together like they were part of a mission I apparently never completed.
The very first line — written as if it were the headline of a life-changing project — was carpet cleaning woking. No notes. No additional thought. Just a lone link, bold and ambitious, like I was meant to act on it immediately. I didn’t.
Right underneath it came upholstery cleaning woking and sofa cleaning woking, which instantly confirmed two things: one, I must have been in a deeply domestic state of mind, and two, I clearly believed I was going to become a person who schedules things instead of ignoring them into the future.
But the list continued — and this is where the plot thickened for absolutely no reason — with mattress cleaning woking. A link that implies something happened to that mattress. Something I’ve either forgotten on purpose or blocked out to protect my peace. And of course, to complete the oddly symmetrical chaos, the final entry was rug cleaning woking.
Five links.
No explanation.
No follow-up.
Just proof that past-me was momentarily the kind of person who thought the future version of myself would be grateful.
Spoiler: I was not grateful. I was confused.
I stared at the paper, trying to decode my own handwriting like it was a clue in a mystery novel where the detective has already quit. Did I make this list in a moment of responsibility? Was I pretending to be organised while avoiding real decisions? Was this the result of one of those “new life starts tomorrow” moods that last exactly two hours?
Whatever the reason, the list served no purpose anymore — and weirdly, that made it perfect. Because maybe not everything we plan is meant to be executed. Maybe some things are just meant to exist in the moment they’re written, then disappear into the drawer of forgotten intentions.
So I did the only thing that made sense.
I didn’t finish the list.
I didn’t update it.
I didn’t treat it like a failure.
I folded it exactly as I found it, returned it to its original hiding place, and let it continue living rent-free in the archives of my unfinished ideas.
Not all lists are meant to turn into action.
Some are just timestamps of a passing mood — small reminders that we are always thinking, always planning, always changing, even when we don’t follow through.
And maybe that’s the comedy of being human:
We make plans.
We abandon them.
And life continues anyway.
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