It seems to be becoming more frequent in my world - some might put it down to getting older but I’d like to see it as a sign of a busy life.
Still, it can be annoying, especially when you remember that important thing just a little too late.
Those of a squeamish disposition might not be comfortable with the idea of me in the bath.
But that’s where I was, in a warm cocoon of soapy suds, when the feeling crept in on Friday morning.
The rumble of the bin lorry deepened the sense of foreboding but it wasn’t until those hardy council workers had disappeared down the road that I realised what had slipped my mind.
By the time I’d jumped out, wrapped myself in a towel, grabbed the Christmas tree and dived out of the front door it was far too late.
The recycling truck was already around the corner and there I was, standing in a cul-de-sac in my dressing gown, hair full of shampoo, clutching a shedding pine and swearing.
And that means I’m going to have to go to the tip.
For some people that’s not a chore.
A friend once told me her dad went every single day - he enjoyed it and would actually go digging for an excuse to head off to the dump.
I certainly don’t share that enthusiasm, in fact I find the experience quite intimidating.
For a start I’m never sure which skip into which things should be thrown.
Christmas trees are straightforward but what about something made of both metal and wood - it normally takes me 20 minutes to work out whether it’s more on than the other before propping the offending item against a wall and running away before anyone can question whether the offending item is or isn’t recyclable.
Unfortunately there’s no avoiding it - there’s the tree and one or two other items to deal with, just so long as I remember. That might take some time.