It's no good: there just doesn't seem to be a way of shaking off the idea that, whatever I'm doing, I ought to be doing something else. Never mind the reminders in my phone diary (what? use it to talk to people? how very last century), there's a nagging feeling that there is something else, planned or promised, that I've somehow forgotten to do, and that there will shortly be some sort of "Oh heck!" moment, or a puzzled "Where are you?" phone call. Or worse.

Of course, there are always odd chores awaiting the acquisition of A Round Tuit, things that could be a bit cleaner or tidier or neater, the cupboard that threatens to brain me with an avalanche of clutter, the buttons that look a bit loose, the accumulation of half-read magazines and books, not to mention the computer that's running out of memory (dare I risk deleting stuff off it and relying on the external hard drive?).

But those I know about; and almost everything Christmas-related is sorted out. This is something much more nebulous: a common feeling when I was a middle manager, and you never knew what Damn-fool Wizard Wheeze from top management, or crass error from an underling, might land in the in-tray - but now, when there's no particular reason to do any particular thing on a particular day?

Perhaps I just don't have enough to do.