SOME days everything seems such a bother. It's the relentless, mind-numbing repeat tasks that drive me up the wall, and sometimes I can't even be bothered to crawl back down again.

Some jobs give me a real sense of satisfaction, especially if they are one-offs where I can see I have made progress.

Daily rituals are the killers. Take shaving. Every morning you have to stand at a bathroom sink, forced to face the ravages of time in that horribly unflattering mirror.

Once you have the shaving cream applied, some of the telltale hints of time are disguised. But then you have to scrape it off again and the wrinkles are revealed in living technicolor.

I've tried letting the mirror steam up, or leaving off my specs, to shave. The results are always the same. I go to work with bloody bits of tissue paper stuck all over my face, neck and ears.

Cleaning teeth is another necessary, boring chore. Especially if it is the morning after the night before, when you are brushing off the Carlsberg fur and unsteady hands might push the brush a little too close to the throat. What a wretched, retching experience.

Another job I absolutely loathe is queueing - for anything. Queueing in the Post Office is probably the worst. Endless lines of grey, miserable people clutching Giro cheques, letters that need weighing or car tax renewal forms when all I need is a thrupenny stamp.

I'm no better in a free-for-all when queues are abandoned. Trying to get served at a busy bar is when I turn into Mr Cellophane. Barmaids and barmen - no sex discrimination here - ignore me in equal quantities and cheerfully serve newcomers three rows behind me.

I hold my tenner up in tempting anticipation and plaster on my best "gizza drink" smile. Hours later, face aching, Saharan thirst setting in, I notice in a mirror that that smile is a menacing grimace that is frightening women, children and horses for miles around.

Cooking a meal just for yourself when no one's home is another task I hate. The recipe goes like this: First think of something to eat and hope you have defrosted the meat earlier; prepare the ingredients; try not to cause an argument with yourself in this empty house and if you must, at least don't shout and get violent; don't drink too much cooking sherry while the salad is burning; and don't forget a good-sized tray so you can eat the meal on your knee while watching Hot Wives on the telly.

I tried Lap Lasagne the other evening. It's where you nod off during the meal and the lasagne slides off your tray and lands - always upside down - in your lap.

To round off the meal, what's more pathetic than washing up a range of pots and pans with only one plate and one knife and fork?

There's no end to these awful chores: cutting toenails (I once successfully completed one foot and left the other a few days until I had mustered more energy); putting on tight socks and struggling to get the heels untwisted, all the while hopping dementedly round the bedroom; filling up with petrol, squeezing the pump trigger and watching your cash tick away by the thimble full; unloading supermarket shopping; applying the first coat of paint when you know it will take at least two more to cover the old colour.

I used to get ratty and shout "read a book" whenever I heard a child moan that he was bored. Now I understand the meaning of boredom. Heaven preserve us from all these repetitive, mindless tasks.

If I ever win that Euro lottery I shall employ somebody to cut my toe nails, clean my teeth, fill my car with petrol and do all my queueing - even down the pub.

I thought marriage would take care of all that but I must have chosen the wrong woman.

Obviously I need a holiday - glorious time off without shaving. See you in a couple of weeks' time.

Updated: 09:10 Tuesday, August 02, 2005