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First things first... Notes on life by a Notebooker.

Name: Lara Kilner. lives: A Northerner in Brighton. About me: Toddler's mum. Doesn't get out much these days. All views my own, except those I borrow from people whose brains work better than mine.

Are you feeling relaxed this morning? Having a nice Sunday slob out in your jim jams, shutting away the stresses of modern life? Or are you thinking, well, this is all very well reading the papers with a nice milky coffee, but those pants won't iron themselves, I really should get that chicken in the oven, and the bathroom floor needs a right good scrub. Oh, and I must call my Great Auntie Nelly in Canada. Which reminds me I need to buy a present for Uncle Bert's 70th. And bake him a fruit cake because he does like a nice bit of marzipan.

If you're a man reading this, of course, the answer will be, 'Well, no, I'm sat here in my pants watching the motor racing with a fried egg butty and not thinking about anything other than how a cup of tea would be nice'.

Because men have a compartment in their brain that contains absolutely nothing at all. It's entirely empty and they spend every possible moment they can there, doing and thinking totally and entirely nada.

Women do not have this compartment. Every compartment is crammed full of mental to-do lists. While attempting my Sunday bath this morning, the one where you pop on a face pack and listen to Classic FM, I laid back and went in for the relax, which lasted about 17 seconds until I noticed a dirty great cobweb on the ceiling and added 'must buy feather duster' to my never-ending in-head list.

I'm the sort of person who can't even relax during a massage in a candlelit room with essential oils and the sound of whales to send me off to night-nights. I'll be lying there thinking how I forgot to pay the gas bill or wondering how many times I'll have to wash my hair to get the oil slick out once they're done with me. I need a holiday. Where I won't relax even while on a sun lounger with a Pina Colada, because I'll be all, 'Did I put suncream on my feet?' 'Have I turned the oven off?' 'Did I forget to reply to that email about something so important the world will collapse without it?' It's exhausting. I want an empty space in my brain where I can go to forget about the world. But if there was one, I'd likely notice it was a bit dusty and be off to get the polish out.

'men have a brain compartment that contains nothing. Nada'
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Title Annotation:Features
Publication:Sunday Mirror (London, England)
Date:Sep 29, 2013
Words:453
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