In my head this has been the month allocated to getting things done. The luxurious dawdle of November has gone. I have lists. Several lists. I have a folder. I do not open it. The folder has "The Plan" written importantly on the front, and I do not even look inside it. My head is full of bees bumping into each other and giving conflicting instructions. The bees have left their lists at home.
I just know I'll be on the train to Brux and I'll suddenly remember that I didn't take a meter reading. Or board up the cat flap. Or get my mail forwarded. Or return the keys to my flat. Or hand my notice in at work.
But what's the worst that can happen? As long as I get myself and my old cock linnet across the sea, I'm laughing. Maybe a little too loud.
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