Saturday evening at about 5pm, the sudden thought comes - quickly, without warning, unannounced, as if from nowhere - "You should have been on duty in the Maison de la Bible this morning, the 21st of January, and you forgot to go."
Anguish and terror seize my heart with a strong, swift, vice-like grip.
I dare not look in my diary.
I tell Pat, 'I think I forgot to be in the Maison de la Bible this morning."
"Oh dear. What does your diary say?"
I dare not look, but look I must, so I brace myself, take a deep breath, poke the little square and up it comes.
Nothing. There is nothing noted for that morning!
Relief is short lived, a mayfly, a shooting star of hope.
"I bet I forgot to note it in my diary!" Like a gambling addict in a bent casino, which essentially means any casino, I know I cannot win.
"I'll ask Catherine."
"No, don't worry about it. There's nothing you can do now anyway."
I listen to the voice of reason, but reason cannot drive out the dreadful feelings of guilt, culpability and blame.
Yesterday at about 14:00 hours Catherine sends me a text message about something else.
I reply, surreptitiously appending, "Did I forget to be in the MB yesterday morning?"
No response came.
It's an obvious "yes".
They're trying to spare my feelings.
Oh dear, it's time to engage a personal carer.
I can no longer live unsupervised in this world.
I contemplate a bleak future being spoon-fed and accompanied to the cough-cough bathroom.
At 20:00 another message. Tacked on the end thereof, "No, it was John's turn."