He chooses not to do them. Often. It has becoming a thing. A routine. He'll sit down. Draw up a list of the things to be done: on a scrap of paper later to be folded and slipped into a pocket, on a Notebook file to be saved to the desktop and lost among the icons, in a pocket day-timer to be stowed in the pocket of a carrying bag. All these lists, at their creation, bring a great deal of pleasure. He sits back each time and inspects the list. Admires it. Then secrets it away into a place that he knows, that he believes, will make it quite immediately available to remind him of his obligations.
What does he know though? Of his own heart and its wanderings? Does he really have the faith required to do those things he will, in casual and profound conversation, claim as worthy endeavours? Do his intentions stand a chance when confronted with lost time? What trade does faith have with the passage of days? Can belief withstand the onslaught of appetite? The vices? The sweets?
He pushes back the chair from the table. Walks with purpose to the small cabinet in the sitting room. Reaches in it to find glass and bottle. Decants. Replaces. Sniffs. Sips. Smiles. Reaches for a magazine and sits down. Sips again. Opens the magazine from the back and begins to read.
Ride report
in: 9'C wind 25 ks SE
out: 15'C wind 40 ks NE
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