WORDS HANNAH
My life is currently full of the wrong sort of plans. In any given day in any week in the year ahead, I could give you a pretty good idea of what I will be doing – probably with significantly greater accuracy than a courier delivery slot. I know when I will have my children, when they’ll be staying at their dad’s, when they’ve got a concert to perform at, when we’ll be extra busy sending an issue of Singletrack to the printer, when the major trade shows of the year will be filling the working day and website with product launches, and when my car will probably fail its MOT.
These are all unavoidable and necessary – although some of them are enjoyable. But they’re not plans, in the sense of something plotted and devised, considered and revised. Plans that start as an idea, and are put together with friends over dinner. Ideas that grow from a casual mention into a date in the diary complete with a few extra branches and leaves that weren’t part of the original idea but give the plan more body, more shape, more reasons to anticipate their fruition.
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