Last week I accidentally (and ironically) donated my husband’s beloved copy of Spark Joy by Marie Kondo to the charity shop. This action sparked arguments, so I spent the next few days trying to claw it back, along with all his other favourite books that I’d mistakenly donated. (By the way, I don’t recommend doing this – it is NOT a good look and involved several fraught conversations and frantic moments in the back room, combing through bags of unwanted Jeremy Clarkson autobiographies.)
Now, you could argue that you shouldn’t put your favourite books on top of a pile that’s destined for the charity shop, but these little mistakes seem to be happening more and more. What with Covid and World War 3 constantly looming in the background like Jacob Rees-Mogg at a cheese and wine party, our brains are losing the capacity to process even the most basic things.
Everything is a surprise, a shock, a mix-up or a fuck-up. I can’t go to the supermarket without forgetting the thing I came in for, I hover and splutter and get my headphones tangled in my mask loops, I nearly got run over by a bus the other day and if one thing goes wrong (which it does, all the time) I need eight hours to recover.
From just £3 per week
But I’m not the only one cocking up on a regular basis. Even the most punctual people now lose track of time, forget what day it is or text garbled nonsense as if they’ve been sitting on their phone. Two of my closest friends are planning to go to the doctor for entirely unnecessary early onset dementia tests – that’s if they can remember to go to their appointment. And someone I know not only sent an embarrassing email to the wrong person at work, but also managed the incredible feat of SPELLING HER OWN NAME WRONG.
Confusion reigns supreme. So what do we do while our world is in such brutal and complex disarray? Do we go full Kondo and start folding up our socks and arranging them in order of how much they mean to us? Or do we just accept that everything is upside down and back to front and nobody knows what the hell is going on any more?
Which brings me seamlessly – like someone in a pair of clogs clattering down a corridor – to my new favourite show, Is it Cake? on Netflix. Do I really need to explain it? Well, here goes. “IS IT A BOWLING BALL? OR IS IT CAKE?” booms the hyperactive host, before slicing up an object with a knife to reveal whether it is made of cake or not. Finally, I have found a show that’s the perfect accompaniment for my brain, which is now made of jelly.