That's the knowledge deep within that somewhere in the house is the half-eaten biscuit or the cup of coffee with the final waiting slurp.
I have that nagging feeling now. I know there is a task that I want to get you to help with. I didn't call you. It was going to have to wait until you came.
I lift my arms above my head to help the memory. It must be something I can't reach. My right wrist is swivelling. Light-bulb? No, I always cope with those myself. It's not the closing action for the top kitchen cupboard. That's a single downward tap and I manage that one with the long wooden tongs for doing stir-fries in the wok. I wander round the house with my arms raised, looking for the half biscuit of this undone task. Finally I find the precious mouthful. In the office near the window my hands remember and they twist and turn. It's the fastener at the top of the jammed sash window. I sigh with satisfaction.
But by the time you get here tomorrow I shall have forgotten again and my wrists will be asking the same question. Where is my half biscuit?
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