What is it? That thing. The important thing, that I have to do today, before it’s too late.
A writing thing, or… I know. An email. That’s it. I’ll have sent myself a message. I do that sometimes when it’s vital The Thing doesn’t slip the net.
Because I know I read all of the messages, except, of course, for the ones I delete. It’s a system that’s as good as my ability to remember the effing password.
But I know it’s crucial, The Thing. I wrote it on my hand. Or rather I scrawled the letter P… Or is it D? So P… Or D is for… Hell, I don’t know. It might be something that needs to be posted, or – how about? – collected from the Post Office. That was last week’s essential thing.
It’s not for school, or scouts, or swimming lessons. Not snow boarding, or a blog post. Not an overlooked bill. A car warning light or the annoying thing on the side in the kitchen where I won’t forget it.
What the hell is it? The kids don’t know. But wonder if it’s the dentist, the optician or someone’s birthday. Check the calendar – there’s a thing I can’t read, but it’s not The actual thing. I’m sure.
It might be on a list, but which list? That envelope, the notebook. Maybe not. I might have an app for that, I’m sure I recall downloading one. Or did I just read about it.
Meantime, I’ve forgotten to listen to The Archers, nearly burned the dinner and only just remembered to make That Call… only to find I was a day early.
I’m sure I’ve got a solution to all of this, but I can’t, for the life of me, remember where I read it.