I’m an organised soul. Every now and again however, the planets go retrograde and…BAM-O!…my desk looks like an homage to the anti-bin charge brigade. Then my brain short circuits and I am unable to find basic necessities like keys or my face. I believe my American brethren call this ‘a hot mess’. I haven’t quite stooped to eating Tayto out of an old sock and muttering about Banshees infiltrating my back garden (that would be far too poetic); rather my altered state is of a more prosaic variety. Last week I managed to lose my make-up brushes and my big furry parka; this week I’ve taken to writing notes on my hand, despite having an iPad, so as not to forget what I’m supposed to remember to do. I believe this is referred to as ‘the slippery slope’ or ‘past it’. Given my 39th birthday is but an atrophied brain cell away, I’ve already started fretting about what I’ll be passing on my precarious descent. Youth, lithe limbs, wanton one-night stands, too high heels, taut skin, perky boobs, a blasé attitude to mini-skirts? This I pondered while purchasing a bottle of Trilogy rosehip oil antioxidant+ in the health food store. I cast my mind back to my uni days and certainly don’t recall fisherman’s rib sweaters, college bar pints and diffuser-dried hair the heady content of Halcyon bliss. Sure, my 20s were a riot but they were also freezing. Dear God, it was Galway in the `90s. I didn’t realise I had a pair of legs until the Celtic Tiger hit and Ireland discovered central heating. The conclusion that here and now is a rockin’ place seems, however, to have had a Zen-like effect on my grey matter. Immigrant items have been repatriated and feverish ‘to do’ notes remain in my head. Now it’s just a question of relocating Mr. Scruff. Something tells me he’s swapped Hibernia for a few months in the Med. Clever cat.