My late night to-do lists are always grandiose: “Tomorrow, I will get a new job, create some form of renewable energy source and change the life of a sweet Victorian orphan during a time travelling adventure.” Inevitably they’re scaled back by the morning: “I’ll drink that can of Diet Coke, tweet some vaguely humorous remark about a news story and apply for jobs with occasional breaks to stare out of the window.” Tick. Tick. Tick. Achievement unlocked. 

Sometimes, to-do list items stick around for years, sliding from one notepad to another. They hang about the place like one of those old fellas who cling to the end of the bar, living gargoyles clutching copies of the Racing Post. There are books I have been promising myself I’ll read and films I’ve been intending to watch since I was sixteen. It’s as if I imagine I’ll wake up one morning immensely more cultured having been guided through a fit of sleepwalking by Mark Lawson. 

So far though I have resisted the lure of the ultimate set of to-dos. There’s no Bucket List lurking in a notebook somewhere, chiding me for my failure to swim with dolphins or climb a mountain. I once played Ecco The Dolphin on the Megadrive and have seen at least half of Touching The Void so I’ve got the gist anyway. The same goes for parachute jumping. Watching the first episode of I’m A Celebrity for three years in a row is close enough really.  

If I was forced to write a Bucket List right now, I’d end up cheating. Live tweeting an entire series of Masterchef: The Professionals would probably not make most people’s lists. They probably wouldn’t have a slot for managing to eat a whole packet of Fig Rolls in a time that, were he still alive, Norris McWhirter would be compelled to note down for inclusion in the Guinness Book of World Records either. 

I think the idea of the Bucket List unsettles me because the very concept means I have to accept that death is inevitable. I’m still holding on to the hope that I’ll be cryogenically frozen and wake up in a future where pale men with an unhealthy knowledge of Morrissey’s back catalogue are revered as living gods. 

Considering the state of the fridge chiller compartment, I can safely say that mastering cryogenics is not likely to be shifted off my to-do list yet. In fact, today I may just have to settle for having finished writing this. Achieving things really isn’t as satisfying as I remembered.