Wendyl Nissen: Leaving yes-terday behind

At the beginning of the month I renamed November "no"vember. This was after a spectacular "yes"tober and "sure"tember in which I had spun from one commitment to another, harried, dishevelled but "presenting well", as a psychologist once described me.

I was suffering from the "yes" bug that seems to be spreading with viral ferocity to everyone I know.

"Flat out, can't see the wood for the trees," said one friend.

"My head is spinning, I have too much to do," said another.

"Beginning to wonder if the sign on Meola Rd that keeps flashing up and telling me to slow down is referring to my life not my driving ..." posted another on Facebook.

It seems that no invitation, no request and no job is able to be turned down any longer by an army of busy women. We just have to do everything that is asked of us.

"Don't write about that," suggested my husband. "Not everyone gets asked to do as much as you do, some people actually lead quite ordinary, organised lives and might think you are a bit up yourself."

"Where?" I replied

"Everywhere."

"Show me these people, so that I can learn from them and share their unique method of living," I said. "Take me to them so that I too can be ordinary and organised."

He consulted his iPhone. He looked out the window. He had no idea where these people might exist.

Because the reality is that everyone is time poor, not just mad writers with books to promote. Apart from the 6.4 per cent jobless members of our society we are all working, cooking meals, cleaning houses, while some are raising children and even grandparents are flat out these days with childcare.

"When did it become okay to be racing around in our own lives, unable to slow down and actually live a life worth living?"

My husband gave me that look, the one where for a brief flash he wonders if his wife is suffering yet another depressive episode before his sense of optimism takes over and he realises she is just being a drama queen.

"No is a good word!" I shouted in a queenly manner before marching off to check on the seven baby chicks my hen Matilda is mothering but who see me, screech, and run off and hide.

"I haven't even had time to tame my chickens!" I moaned, before fending off yet another attack from Matilda who used to nestle into me for sweet cuddles but now seems intent on pecking my lower legs to death to protect her brood.

"No, Matilda. No, no, no!"

The problem with saying "no" is that you immediately disappoint someone. The voice on the end of the phone bravely hides the sadness lurking beneath.

The return email is curt and barely disguising its hostility. And you sit there feeling terrible about upsetting someone you've never met who will simply put a line through your name and move on to the next person.

"You can't please all the people all the time," I announced to my empty office, which had spent the past three weeks begging to have its rubbish bin emptied, discarded books placed neatly on its shelves and a little light dusting with one of my signature lemon dusters.

The other thing about saying "no" is that sometimes you have to lie. You're not really busy on that night but you are every other night that week and you just need one night off, for God's sake.

And then you have to remember the lie so that you don't Facebook or Twitter at the exact same time you said you were out about planting seeds in egg shells or some other "me"-time activity. Which means you have to type into your calendar the words "pretend to be away".

And your husband walks in staring at his iPhone which has begun to grow tentacles with the aim of attaching itself to his side, figuring it might as well make the arrangement permanent.

"It says here you are pretending to be away. What does that mean?"

My husband now has access to all my personal details, thanks to the wizardry that is the iPhone.

"I lied to someone about not being able to do something."

He poked the screen of his iPhone a couple of times and finally looked at me.

"Very ordinary. Very organised. Well done," said the good Catholic boy from Mt Roskill.