The Lovely Art of Puttering

I can lose an entire morning to a very small job.

It usually begins with something sensible. I go to put a book away and notice the shelf could do with a dust. I move the books, find a photograph tucked behind them, and take it downstairs to show someone. On my way back I remember the plant needs water. By the time I return to the shelf, it is almost lunchtime and the dust is still there.

I call this puttering. It sounds so much nicer than “I started six things and finished none of them.” Besides, I have been busy. The plant has water. The photograph has been admired. I found a hair clip I thought we had lost forever. If anybody asks what I have done, I can produce the hair clip as evidence.

Some days, of course, there is a list and I need to get through it. Puttering is for the days with a little room around the edges. I make tea and drink half of it while deciding where a chair ought to go. I take a cushion into another room to see whether it looks better there. I start folding clothes and pause to look out of the window because the light has changed.

The girls are excellent company for this sort of day. They have never thought a walk from the bedroom to the kitchen should be completed without stopping. There is a toy to pick up, a drawer to investigate, a very important crumb on the floor. Their interests and mine do not always align, but I respect the thoroughness of their research.

At some point I start thinking about dinner. I look in the fridge, take something out, put it back, and decide I should use the tomatoes first. The tomatoes remind me of lunch, which I forgot to clear away. By the time I have done that, I have quite a good idea for dinner, though I can’t remember what I originally opened the fridge to find.

I have learned to dress for the possibility that the day will stay at home. Something comfortable enough for sitting on the floor, but lovely enough that I don’t feel the need to change if somebody calls in. A nightdress turns out to be particularly good for this. You can spend the morning doing little jobs in it and then sit down with a book without announcing a change of plans.

By late afternoon, the shelf may finally be dusted. Or I might notice that the books look better in a different order and begin again. Either way, the rooms have been lived in. There is usually a fresh arrangement somewhere, even if it is just a cushion that has migrated across the house.

I used to feel obliged to give these days a more impressive name. A reset. A productive Sunday. A day of getting on top of things. But I quite like putting the kettle on and seeing what catches my eye. I’ll finish the shelf eventually. Probably.