The diary of almost everything

There is a very specific kind of irony in realising that you are perfectly capable of doing something, fully aware of how it works, confident enough to execute it, and yet somehow never quite getting around to doing it for yourself.

Wallpapering falls firmly into that category.
At home, I have always been very good at finding people who are willing to help, which sounds generous in theory, but is in reality mostly a well-developed talent for outsourcing anything that involves standing on a ladder for extended periods of time while trying to align something that refuses to cooperate.

So it is slightly questionable that I recently found myself standing in someone else’s home, confidently handling long, stubborn strips of fibreglass wallpaper, pressing them into place as if this had always been part of my personality.
Thirty strips later, each one a metre wide and somehow heavier than logic would suggest, I reached the point where my shoulders gently informed me that this was no longer a casual activity, but a full upper-body workout disguised as a favour.

There is also something humbling about working above your own height for hours, arms lifted, trying to convince a material that has absolutely no interest in flexibility to behave as if it does, all while maintaining the illusion that you are in control of the situation.
Which, to be clear, is a fragile illusion at best.

By the time I had finished and could finally stop, I had developed a newfound respect for both wallpaper and anyone who claims to enjoy this process voluntarily.

And yet, instead of immediately collapsing, I did what any reasonable person would do after a day like that, which is stretch out on a sunbed, close my eyes for a moment, and pretend that my shoulders would recover through optimism alone.

That is when I heard them.
Children, somewhere below, laughing, running, fully committed to something that sounded both chaotic and extremely well planned in their own minds.
It didn’t take long to realise what they were doing! Doorbell ditching, executed with varying levels of confidence and strategic awareness. From above, it was almost impossible not to watch.

There was one girl who clearly took the lead, pressing doorbells with efficiency and disappearing at impressive speed, followed by a group that moved more as a concept than a coordinated unit, and one boy who seemed to operate on a slight delay, staying behind just long enough to make every situation more complicated than necessary.

At one point he appeared to adopt a sort of casual confidence, walking up to a door as if this was a perfectly normal social interaction, only to be joined by the others seconds later, turning it into a group activity that was, at best, optimistic in its chances of success.

The moment came, inevitably, when one of the doors opened before they could escape, and the entire group scattered in laughter and mild panic, which only made it funnier to watch.
I found myself laughing along, not because it was particularly clever, but because it was so unmistakably familiar.
We did the same thing, maybe not with the same lack of coordination, although I suspect that part hasn’t changed much across generations, but with the same mix of excitement and poor decision-making.
Looking back, I am fairly sure we rang doorbells at places we had absolutely no business disturbing, including what were probably quiet apartment buildings where the residents had very little interest in participating in childhood games, something that did not occur to me at the time, because as a child, the thrill of running away tends to outweigh any consideration for context.

And that’s the thing; children are very good at being exactly that.
Unfiltered, slightly chaotic, entirely present in whatever ridiculous plan they have decided is worth pursuing.
It made me realise, lying there with slightly overworked shoulders and a sense of having earned my break, that there is something deeply appealing about that simplicity, about doing something just because it is fun, without immediately evaluating whether it is productive, efficient, or aligned with long-term goals.

At the same time, I also remember very clearly wanting to grow up as quickly as possible, convinced that adulthood would somehow unlock a better version of life, one with more freedom, more clarity and fewer limitations.
Which, in some ways, it does.
And in other ways, it simply replaces one set of questions with another.

Somewhere between hanging wallpaper for other people, going to the gym with a body that is still negotiating its limits, and sitting in the sun watching children run away from doorbells, I am starting to suspect that there isn’t a perfect version of either stage.
There are just moments: small ones or unexpected ones. The kind that make you laugh for no real reason, or pause just long enough to notice that, despite everything, things are actually quite good.

By the time I got up, picked up an iced coffee on my way home, and realised, of course, that I had forgotten at least one essential item at the store, I felt oddly content.
Slightly tired and mildly unproductive but also completely fine with it.

Which, considering the circumstances, feels like a very reasonable outcome.

-Sophie Quinn