It is important I talk of physical rather than mental.
I am happy wallowing in the latter for extraordinary periods of time, but when it comes to lifting, sawing, clearing, gardening or carrying plates of food to the dinner table, my toothpickian arms and firm resolve never to feel a muscle twitch has left me one of the physically laziest men on earth.
In fact, in the latest World Health Organisation ratings, I am category 7C: Unable To Turn A Page Of A Book Without Help.
Category 7D is what my friend David calls ''that hill above Andy Bay'', as in, ''there are plenty of people who like to rush,'' says David ''and most of them are on that hill above Andy Bay''.
Yes, the cemetery.
But along comes Easter, with its two days of closed supermarkets and empty cafes, and I spring to life like a sugared child at a birthday party.
This Easter just past I decided to clear the basement to within an inch of its life.
The initial reason for going down there - trying to find an exercycle - underlines what a tragic state this quite large space had got itself into.
I knew there was an exercycle somewhere, standing upright what's more, it's a very big one, ProForm 700, broken, though the pedals still work, but so much else had moved down there, almost as if rubbish can be human, that the exercycle had become submerged.
And in the course of unsubmerging it, I found so much stuff that a complete clean-up became mandatory.
The resultant pile of magnificent '60s and '70s memorabilia peculiar to my peculiar life will at least make New Zealand a better place for all of us to live in, as Trade Me has since been, and will be, a glittering treasure trove of Things That Should Be Possessed By Kiwis With Rational Brains.
But what got me, the one that bent my back to the point of breaking, drove my normally placid temperament into arctic-white rage, fists clenched, eyeballs throbbing, was the enormous number of wires and cords down there.
These twisting turning connections to phones, stereos, televisions, cameras, computers, kettles and game consoles have tormented me all my life.
I had already failed to find my iPod connection, so I had sent away for another one, $15.99, rather than go into the cord boxes.
But Easter being Easter, being a creator of physical toil, I decided to sort out all the connection-cord-snake things for once and for all.
And here the suggestion above that rubbish can be human is germane.
These things breed and bond once you put them in a box.
The ones already in the box welcome a new arrival when he or she is flung in there, they make them immediately feel at home.
Quick, they say, come and curl around us in a succession of untieable MIT-sanctioned knots, you will never have to go upstairs again, you can live forever with us, tied up, warm and comfortable, available, even, for breeding.
I have been to houses where there are garages with every connection cord hanging on a different labelled nail on the walls.
This is more anal than the most anal of all anal. Yet I nearly embraced this infantile level of behaviour.
Had I a garage, I would have.
Instead, I decided to separate all the cords and then wrap them into Cellotape-bound circles so they would never unravel.
Or breed.
That would rate as the most productive thing I have ever done around the house in my life.
Everyone in the family and extended family would benefit hugely.
Hey Roy, do you have any cords for a Commodore 64 computer?
Why of course, I have three.
An Atari 2600 Game Console?
Seven.
My standing would rise like a goggle-eyed giraffe soaring from a Louisiana swamp.
But, and there is always a but, in four full Easter days, I couldn't unravel a single one.
• Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
