Cabin Fever Can Strike On Dry Land - Shock Report

There are several phases of boredom. The first is a mild, almost pleasant awareness that there's nothing to do - a vaguely confusing sensation of being lost which can be satisfying in its difference from the norm. The next few stages involve gradually increasing amounts of irritation which can often be solved by finding a minor distraction: a phonecall with a friend or a repeat of Mary Poppins on the TV. But over the course of the past week, when 90% of my time was spent at home, on my own, with only brief forays outside the house for the occasional tutoring spell or supermarket trip, I began to go out of my mind.

By 2pm yesterday, I'd reached previously unscaled peaks: an echelon of ennui identifiable by a newfound tendency to speak in a strange, crazed voice and giggle maniacally after almost every sentence. With no money to spend, and laziness sadly inherent in both of us, Simon and I were struggling to find something to fill our Sunday afternoon. We'd read the papers, lain around doing nothing for the larger portion of Saturday, and had had more than enough of the television. It is testament to quite how bored we both were that my suggestion of sorting out the books in my bedroom was such an appealing prospect for both of us.

With an enthusiasm that smacked of desperation, we trotted up two flights of stairs and threw ourselves into the task. Item 1: separate fiction from non-fiction. Item 2: sort fiction into read and unread. Unasked, Simon then subdivided fiction further into Normal Height and Smaller-Than-Average, and stacked the read fiction next to the wall, with my unread books at the front for easy access. No more will I be lost for a new tome - all the volumes are facing me, ready to go, taunting me with their uncreased spines and (in many cases) decade-old unenjoyed status.

Meanwhile, on the other side of my room, taking up six shelves and the carpet beneath, is my new non-fiction library, divided into reference, poetry and plays, self-help, modern psychology and philosophy, travel, history, politics, biography and autobiography, a shamefully extensive how-to-write-best-selling-novels section, cookery and a small 'Misc.' zone containing two books on being left-handed and an Ordnance Survey map of the Dorset coast.

The whole experience was largely satisfying - even for Simon whose latent (and not unattractive) OCD kicked in to previously unwitnessed levels. I was able to weed out dozens of books that I felt were unworthy to feature in my collection - and to accommodate my new fiction layout I was encouraged to discard several weighty stacks of old Smash Hits! magazines from the 1980s and 1990s, an emotional but unarguably sensible suggestion. To the untrained eye, my room probably looks no different, but to me, the difference is manifest.

Tolstoy wrote that boredom is 'the desire for desires'. If he's to be believed, I was bored because I wanted nothing - and thus, as soon as I realised that I desired an organised bookshelf, I was no longer bored. I'd have to argue with Leo though, for although I was truly, through-and-through bored yesterday, that didn't mean I had no desires. I desired a staggering amount. I desired a flat-stomach and thin thighs; I desired a million pounds. And I desired a miniature pony as a pet. But I didn't do a kickboxing video, write a commercially-driven novel or register my desire for a small horse with breeders online. I had desires - it was just easier to stay bored than pursue them. Perhaps boredom is the desire for desires that are more desirable than sitting still. And if that's the case, my future looks worryingly sedentary.