At half past two I was standing by the door with one shoe on, looking for the other. A parcel waited on the table. It had been there since Wednesday, and apparently Saturday afternoon was when we were both meant to do something about it.

I found the shoe under a coat. Put it on. Picked up the parcel, checked the return date, and realised I had another eleven days.

Eleven days is quite a lot of days when you are already wearing shoes.

I could have gone. That is the part I keep coming back to. The shop was open, the car had petrol, and there was nothing standing between me and a completed errand except the fact that I wanted to stay home. I had been treating that as the weakest possible argument.

Once out, I would have bought milk, although we had enough until Monday. I would have remembered the light bulb. Walked past the supermarket flowers and wondered whether to get some, then decided against it because I was only there for milk. By the time I came back, the patch of light on the sitting-room floor would have moved behind the chair.

I know this route. I can turn a parcel into most of an afternoon.

So I put it back on the table. Wrote "Monday, after work" on the return label's envelope. Took off the shoes.

For a few minutes I felt faintly ridiculous. All that preparation, and now I was standing in my socks. The parcel was still there. Nothing had improved in any way I could tick off.

I sat down while the light was still on the floor. From the chair I could see the corner of the parcel through the doorway. I expected it to bother me more than it did.

On Monday I would already be passing the shop.