My life in my diary

It wasn't until around 6pm last night that I realised I must've left my diary behind, when we left the fundraising meeting that morning. And for about 2 hours, my worry-cells jumped and plumped up to bursting.

You see, my diary is my short-term memory. Without it, I don't know when or where my next appointment is, what hours I've worked (and therefore, what hours I'll get paid for), the phone numbers of various useful people or any of the information I jotted down last time I visited my accountant. Without it, I am a frazzled thing.

I was absolutely itching to call the woman whose house it was at, but I didn't wish to break the unwritten rule about never calling a parent during the jungle hour, nor during the time they'd normally put their kids to bed. So I waited until 7.30pm.

And the diary wasn't there.

Then I thought to have another look in the car, because I'd brought along so much stuff to the meeting (bits of paper with fundraising info on it, my diary, the nappy bag, TLM, TLM's snack box, TLM's potty, our respective jackets, my glasses, my sunglasses...) and it was fairly likely that I'd left something around by the front seat.

And there it was, snuck away under the front seat where I couldn't see it but could feel it if I stuck my arm right underneath. Oh, the relief! Oh the embarrassment! Oh the restlessness resulting from getting overly stressed over losing my "memory"!