Even the cat looked slightly startled. That was surprising. She has witnessed plenty of avoidance behaviour in her eight years.
Unnecessary ironing, lawn mowing, cleaning, cake baking, hand washing of woollens, rambling phone calls to friends and relatives and, in recent days, the delving into the bowels of the toilet cistern in an attempt to sort out an annoying leak.
Sadly, my triumphant conclusion that clever application of chewing gum had done wonders proved mere delusion, revealed when the toilet was next flushed.
Often such behaviour is aimed at looming deadlines, but in this instance the issues were many and varied.
It is that season when people love to ask you what you are doing for Christmas, a question I cannot adequately answer yet.
"I have ordered a boned leg of hogget which I think I will stuff with couscous..."
About that point, whoever is foolish enough to quiz me has as much interest in the answer as I did in the question.
What did I put in that stuffing last time? When will we eat this meat? Who will be here?
Should I suggest another Christmas-afternoon working bee in my garden? If so, it might be wise to ban the use of the chainsaw (belated apologies to the neighbours for that - the boys were just trying to remove a branch impeding their ability to play volleyball on what was once the front lawn).
Is it time to revert to our old stand-by, the Christmas picnic, where in fair weather or foul, we plonk ourselves on a blanket somewhere, even if it is indoors?
I have yet to determine whether there will be a Christmas tree. My tradition of lopping a piece off the overgrown macrocarpa hedge has always been derided by the offspring. Would it be unfair to deprive them of that? Should I trick them into thinking I am reforming by buying a pine tree or an artificial monstrosity?
As well as avoiding Christmas preparation thought, I was trying to ignore the news. This has been the year of the knee-jerk response, most obvious in much of the new law on the books, often passed under urgency.
Now, with another brutal attack on a policeman, we are getting renewed calls for police to be armed. Never mind that in this case a gun was unlikely to have been helpful.
It's frightening to think that with an election year looming we are likely to hear even more hyperbole about law and order.
These thoughts were ignored as I endangered the cat, hurling items out of a basket in the hall looking for anything which might help me in my latest avoidance quest.
My frenzy was prompted by news that Dunedin's roller derby sisterhood is recruiting for next year.
What could be better than a strategic contact sport on eight wheels? That's only four extra wheels than a supermarket trolley. Elbowing people out of the way en route to those pre-Christmas bargains could provide valuable early practice. How hard could it be?
In the basket I found shin pads suitable for a 7-year-old, one knee pad (bought for the First Born's volleyball career but spurned as useless - which perhaps explains the mysterious loss of the other one) and two elbow pads.
Perhaps the good doctors who inserted half a Meccano set in my right elbow a few years back might be concerned, but I see packing that metal as an advantage.
That's the wonderful thing about avoidance thinking. If you are desperate enough, you can rationalise anything. Somehow, I had overlooked the fact I never mastered the art of standing upright on any sort of roller skate and that any exercise beyond a brisk walk would see me gasping like a broken-winded draught horse.
I was disappointed not to find old rugby shorts, as the sheilas who do this stuff seem to go for the skimpy look, often teamed with fishnet tights.
Then reality struck. Fifty-five year olds, shorts,varicose veins and pantyhose of any type are not a happy combination, although the sight would strike fear into the opposition.
In any case, I don't possess any fishnets. To look authentic, in a burst of recycling chic, I could rustle up something with a few onion bags. Alternatively, I could fall heavily on the cheese grater to pretend I had fishnet burn (an occupational hazard for the serious roller derby gal).
That, dear readers, was a thought too far.
I grabbed a sharp pair of scissors and applied them liberally to my motley collection of old pantyhose.
Soon I had a pile of plant ties and larger pieces excellent for cleaning showers or baths.
Christmas presents solved.
It's the thought that counts, even when it's absent.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
