The living dead

I lift off the iron slats and spray with alacrity. Too late, I realise my error.

I should have scooped up the ominous bits first (grains of rice, calcified mince and a gang of shrivelled mushrooms). Now they’ve coagulated into a gruesome emulsion. Oh well. I wipe, capturing most of the diminutive debris.

Is this what I should be doing with my time?

I shake the cloth into the bin and go back for round two.

I mean, I’m not exactly sitting around in my pants watching cat videos, but is this any better? Is it any more worthy?

The thing is this. Last week I read a story on Medium, and, to use Gen Z speak: I’m shook.

It was a woman talking about how she maximises her time and productivity. So far, so ubiquitous, right?

Hang on, though.

This wasn’t the usual waking up at 4am and cutting out social media. We’re not talking workflows and Ashwaghanda and sleep hygiene. No. This was something I’d never heard of before — something I didn’t even know existed.

I give the hob another liberal spritz with my Method Custard Cream spray.

This woman – we’ll call her Linda – has installed a death countdown on her phone (yes, there’s an app for that). This, apparently, is how she optimises her productivity, how she eeks every last drop of ambition out of herself.

And I can’t stop thinking about it.

How does it even work?

Surely, a visible countdown to your death is nothing more than a gateway to pure nihilism. Or, at the very least, inertia.

If I could see the number of weeks, days, hours, that I have left to live, it wouldn’t make me more productive. Don’t get me wrong, I thrive on a tight deadline — but not a literal one.

There is no way I’d look at the ever diminishing time I have left on this planet and think: better crack on with that to-do list.

If I was perpetually aware of shuffling off this mortal coil, I would not be standing here cleaning this hob.

I’d think: fuck it. Fuck all of it.

That’s what death is, isn’t it? The inevitable conclusion to chaos and futility; the final fuck it. Focus on it too closely and it renders everything meaningless, made up, vacuous. That’s why we’re not supposed to. It’s like the sun; you know it’s there, but stare at it too long and you’ll burn your retinas.

But here is this woman. Linda. Watching the seconds of her life evaporate like dewdrops in June, counting the grains of sand as they fall silently through the hourglass.

And she’s not panicked. Or paralysed. She’s motivated to do more, to fill every moment with purpose and achieving.

In fact, numbering her days in this way has impelled her to write that book she always wanted to write.

Really, Linda? Why? So you can have a legacy? Who gives a fuck? You’re gonna be dead soon — remember? Why aren’t you sat on the sofa eating Curly Wurlies and watching Peep Show on repeat?

I mean fair play to her, but this would never work for me.

Apart from the fuck-it factor, I just can’t picture myself in the future. I don’t really believe I’ll grow old. Or die. Time feels too elusive, too conceptual. The idea of myself being anywhere but now, feels almost unimaginable. So even if I could see my days ticking down in cold, hard numbers, it would seem abstract. I just wouldn’t believe it.

Or would I?

Maybe I’m wrong; maybe it would help me focus.

Maybe I could write a book if the Grim Reaper was running his delicate fingers through my hair and whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

Maybe this is exactly what I need to vanquish my endless procrastination and avoidance.

I mean, I do work well under pressure; in fact, it’s the only time I get anything done…

I go to the app store. Jesus wept — there are loads of them. Is this what everyone does now? I click on one. Am I really going to do this?

I confirm it.

In no time at all a skull icon (subtle) appears on my screen. My thumb hovers over this freshly downloaded doomsday clock. I press down.

And hold…

This feels wrong. Like the start of a Black Mirror episode. Seeing my whole life laid out in days like some ghoulish advent calendar, will definitely make me freak out.

…and delete.

Fuck you, Reaper. And fuck being productive. It’s all a con, a grisly rouse. It’s a shitty scam. And we’ve all bought into it. We’ve all drunk the poison.

What does being productive even mean, really? Today I did some writing and made enchiladas for dinner. I mopped the floors and picked up my kids. And now I’m cleaning this fucking hob. Is that what we mean by productivity?

I don’t think it is.

When people talk about productivity, they’re talking about achievement. Writing books and climbing metaphorical ladders and smashing idiomatic ceilings. Winning awards and monetising your Insta account, and moving up, always moving up.

And there’s nothing wrong with that, obviously. We’re human. We want to create meaning and have purpose. We want to achieve and produce. It’s just—

Isn’t downloading death countdowns onto our phones taking it a bit too far? Isn’t it, well, ironic?

If it’s later than we think, shouldn’t we be enjoying ourselves more?

I lift the heavy iron slats back on to the hob and slot them into place.

When did life get so listy? Bucket lists, goal lists, to-do lists, lists of things to do before you’re 40, 50, 60.

It’s as if our worth is measured only by our ‘success’. Can’t we just enjoy floating in the temperate waters of mediocrity; can’t we waste half an hour cleaning a cooker that doesn’t really need to be cleaned?

Can’t we just live?

I stand back and assess the hob. Like a smiling child, it gleams back at me. God, it feels good to be alive.