I used to keep lists of things to do. It started out as a practicality and transformed into a small-scale obsession. Every day I would jot down a couple of things to do, people to call, stuff to buy from the supermarket on the way home from work. I would use square post-it notes, stuck to the inside of my notebook at work, which I carried from meeting to meeting, adding the occasional note or extra task to the list as I became inspired.

Soon, I’d graduated on to a permanent numbered list which sat propped up in front of my monitor. I’d cross items out as I completed them, and then the next morning, I’d copy all the incomplete items onto the next sheet, where they’d automatically be at the top of the list. Then as the day went on, I’d cross things off when I’d done them and new items to the bottom. I had days and days of lists, all dated at the top, all with about two-thirds of tasks completed and crossed through, and a third carried forward to the next day.

My lists became fearsome. Twenty things. Thirty things. More. Less about what to buy and who to phone, and more about work-related tasks. Elaborate strings which could be copied to PDA for shuffling and updating on the train home.

Soon, I realised that it was less-labour intensive to stop re-copying out the lists and just change the date on the top of the sheet. Eventually I abandoned dates altogether, and lists become weekly. Then they progressed beyond the individual, as I realised that it was more efficient to combine to-do lists for the entire team. They became ritual, compiled as a team early on a monday morning, written large on a whiteboard or flipchart, with different colours and initials to determine which member of the team needed to take action.

And then a few weeks ago I stepped back and looked at the lists. What the fuck? Too much time and energy spent making lists. Not enough spent actually doing the things which needed doing, which warrented attention. Lists compiled so other people could see the lists.

Enough, already. Step away from the whiteboard, Meg. Put down the pen.