One of my most vivid childhood (probably early teen) memories is of my Dad shouting at me for exhibiting a 'habitual lack of forethought'.
Even though about 25 years have gone by since then, I don't really think my capacity for forethought has improved any.
One indication is the fact that right in front of me is a whiteboard, which is divided up into three to-do lists: one for my current job, which I'm leaving at the end of the month; one for my new company, which starts trading on the 1st December (a Saturday, but I'm keen, and I've got a project to start with the Economist, which is terribly exciting for me because I like the Economist in the same sort of way that Apple fanboys like the iPhone), and one for The Big Move.
The first two lists are terribly busy and organised, with tick boxes that are progressively being ticked off, asterisks to denote urgent items, scrawled-on phone numbers, meeting appointments and exclamation marks.
The to-do list for The Big Move is a different story. It has one solitary item: 'Call Removals people'. This has a tick next to it, because I *have* called the removals people, on several occasions, to the extent that I'm now almost sure they're going to turn up next Friday and take all my stuff to Cornwall.
I think that a large part of my brain is actually convinced that I've now done everything I need to do to prepare for the move. A mild ripple of concern ruffled the stillness earlier when I suddenly half-remembered that normal people tend to make entire spreadsheets for moving house, but I managed to put it to the back of my mind. I've called the Removals people, after all. Everything will be just fine.