NOCD

I like to think of myself as pretty organised. Others might say 'control freak' but, for several reasons, I prefer 'pretty organised'. I make my bed nine mornings out of ten. I do the washing up before I go to sleep if I can. I regularly take my eye make-up off in the evenings. I pay my bills on time. I usually write thank you letters before my self-imposed deadline. I find out ticket onsale dates and get good seats by phoning at 9am. I think ahead; I am a natural planner. I have an impressive range of stationery for every eventuality, including a box of those brass fasteners you put through pieces of paper to allow them to spin around in opposite directions. I have different laundry products for whites, colours, wools and delicates. I am punctual. Things are mostly shipshape.

But behind the tidy facade lies a darker story. I have items on my Things To Do List that haven't moved for years. Currently holding the top spot is 'Have guitar lessons', which has been there since the 1990s. Slightly newer additions that show little sign of shifting are 'Buy stainless steel screws for bathroom shower rack'; 'Give wedding present to Al & Lucy' (married in 2004, gift purchased and wrapped in 2005, still ungiven); and 'I still owe four hours of computer lessons to Dad', dating back several years to when I borrowed some money from them for, I believe, a holiday, and agreed to repay him in iTunes and digital photography uploading tuition. Eek.

But I'm proud to announce that today I was able to cross off something that had been clinging to the list for a very long time: I went to the dry cleaner's. I took my mum's silk scarf that I borrowed for Olivia's Footballers' Wives hen night in 2004. And a cocktail dress that's been sitting in the bottom of my laundry basket since 2006. And the bridesmaid outfit that I wore to Lucy and Jake's wedding in 2003. It's not pleasant, but it must be conceded that if I was a true obsessive compulsive, these things would not have been allowed to fester quite so long. Admit it: I'm not as freakishly organised as I may have seemed. I am, in fact, Normal. Remember I told you.

In other news: I bought another new hairbrush to make up for the rubbish over-priced one I purchased two weeks ago - and then when I was drying my hair after the gym, the new one became stuck. It's one of those round drying brushes and I was trying to do some clever under-spinning thing to make my hair look really shapely and gorgeous, but it backfired and a fair-sized clump of hair became entangled in the cheap bristles, really close to the scalp. I tried to pull it out. I tried to wiggle it out. But quickly it became clear that cutting it out was a very real possibility. Equally clear was the fact that such actions would involve the removal of a mug-sized patch of hair from the right hand side of my head, exactly at the point that the hair meets my face, above my right ear. Inconspicuous it would not be.

I broke out into a nervous sweat, took three deep breaths and realised that I would have to break the problem down into manageable chunks. I pulled out a tiny initial segment, resisting the urge to yelp in agony. Gradually, I was able to free up strand after strand, until only one stubborn tangle remained, double-wound around the brush shaft, now dry, matted and inflexible. I was running late and became ruthless, pulling hard which stretched the skin away from my scalp giving me the appearance of a bizarre Star Trek character. Sexy. Eventually I managed to free myself completely from the instrument of torture, and dried the rest of my hair using traditional, vertical brush strokes. Vidal Sassoon, your crown is safe.