I had big plans for this long weekend.

This weekend has been the carrot dangling in front of me as is dragged my limp, exhausted ass through January. I needed it. So badly.

Partly because I was tired, but also because I felt like one extra day to myself would give me the time needed to reset and get back on The Right Path. So of course I had little goals in mind for how I would use this precious extra day.

I wanted to finish reading Moby Dick and then hopefully move on to a financial advice book a dear friend suggested I read (because, let’s face it, your girl could do with a bit of help). I was going to use that extra day to write next week’s column, today’s blog post and a spare, non-time-sensitive column for the paper to have on hand in case I’m late/serve them up total garbage. I’d have my meals prepped for the next few days. My groceries would be done. My sheets would be clean. Heck, maybe I’d even do a cheeky 10k-er around the park.

It was going to be cultured and productive and sensible.

Instead, it’s 10.15am on a Sunday morning and I’m feeling somewhat sloppier than I’d like. And that’s not just because I’m sitting in a puddle of upper-thigh sweat wearing an oversized button-up shirt with tomato stains and no pants.

It’s because instead of reading classic literature, I spent all of last night catching up on Pretty Little Liars*. Before that I decided to have a three-hour nap. The most productive thing I did yesterday was spending 40 minutes changing my ringtone to Mental As Anything’s Live It Up instead of the generic iPhone tune. My sheets are unwashed, my lunch containers are unfilled and the only thing I did that came close to “doing groceries” was buying a carton of beer and a bag of corn chips.

But here I am, sitting at my flat’s new second-hand dining table, doing my best to turn things around. Because I have got this extra day up my musty sleeve, and like Harry with his invisibility cloak, I’m determined to use it well. I am meeting a friend to eat a family-sized serving of pasta out of giant wheel of cheese at 6pm, so I have a few hours to make this day count. And, for some reason, I believe in myself.

Already, I’ve written a column about how life-affirming it is to have a dining table (and yes, I did use the “tables have turned” phrase, because if I’m going to keeping flogging the “I’m twentysomething and I’m a fucking mess LOL” horse, I may as well use keep the clichés coming).

I’ve eaten some eggs. And I’ve made a half-arsed attempt at completing the Clifton Courier crossword (but felt like a failure after being unable to think of the word for “colt’s mum” – it’s depressing that someone with so much horsey leisure wear knows so little about the animals. It’s kind of like when someone wears a Metallica shirt and doesn’t know any of their songs, I guess. Although, I doubt a horsey person would come up to me and say “if you love horses so much, then tell me what you call a female that hasn’t bared a foal yet” with the same misplaced authority as a “real” music fan).

And here I am, writing my Sunday blog post before midday optimistic for the future.

Heck, I even plan on writing a second post before the day’s out to update you on my progress. I’m dreaming big. I believe in myself.

It’s not so much of a “yes, I can” as it is a “yes, I could”, but that’s just going to have to do right now.

So stay tuned to see how I go.

* not that I’m ashamed of my program of choice. It’s not a “guilty pleasure”. I’m not hiding the fact that I need to know who the shit A is. I feel like there is a powerful, unnecessarily-emotive essay in me about how a mystery series aimed at teenage girls is just as valid of a form of entertainment as classic literature. But that’s an argument for another day.