Like a goldfish

It was with a sense of relief that I shut the gate at the end of our lane this afternoon. Paid work done for another week and the start of four days at Rock HQ. Most of the Ryelands were parked strategically along the dirt track resting up after a hard days grazing and eating fallen leaves. I was happy, especially as I had done all that I was meant to do. Tracey is poorly so I was given a list of things that needed doing as well as go to work. Mission accomplished I was happy I had earned massive amounts of Brownie points by doing as asked and I hadn't even needed the list. I had even arranged with the Stable Sprite the final journey of pig clubs porkers, contacted the butcher to organise the final cut, dropped off Tracey's paperwork and handed in her sick note. You don't need lists, you just need to remember.
I put the car keys in my pocket, something rustled ominously.
The cheques were still in my pocket, the cheques I had promised faithfully to pay into the bank. Ah.
The same bank I was supposed to go to to get money for Pritch who is building the new Berner accommodation block. Ooops.
The Berners, who were watching me from the conservatory, the hungry looking dogs for whom I was supposed to get the dog food after going to the bank. Oh dear. What had I spent my lunchtime doing?
My only defence, I'm a man, unable to multi-task and I was distracted by market stalls and a bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich.