How I hate paperwork. Forms to fill, bills to pay, statements to file, receipts to keep, documents documenting things, proving things, explaining things. Keep them all. Up the pile rises, higher and higher, until this tower of fear and confusion can no longer support itself. Down it comes, collapsing under the weight of all the misery, the wretched sheets fanning out across the floor like the most dispiriting hand of cards ever dealt.
It’s at this stage I wish I was more like a friend I had who ran a department in a private school. It was one of those crammer places, where you go to retake the exams your original private school couldn’t get you through. At the end of each term he’d cast a baleful eye over the calamity of his desk, find himself a bin bag, and sweep into it every last bit of paper. Nothing would be spared – every letter, opened or unopened, along with any sweet wrappers, fragments of rolling tobacco and heaven knows what else. Off to landfill it went while off on holiday this dissolute character would go. And back to a lovely clear desk he’d return next term.
