Three Hours Without an Appointment

Gareth bought a paper diary when he retired, expecting its empty pages to feel luxurious. Instead, he filled them with dental checks, shopping lists and reminders to telephone people who rarely answered. On Wednesdays, he scheduled a walk at eleven. Even freedom, apparently, needed a booking if it was going to happen at all.

His daughter noticed the diary while borrowing his car. She asked whether he could collect a cabinet on Wednesday morning. He agreed before looking at the page, then spent the evening feeling cheated. Nothing prevented him from walking later. What bothered him was how quickly an unoccupied morning had become somebody else's available transport service.

At the furniture warehouse, the cabinet was not ready. Gareth waited beside a machine selling expensive coffee while his daughter apologised by telephone. He nearly told her that he had important plans. Instead, he admitted that he had wanted three hours which nobody could claim, including himself. She was quiet, then offered to arrange another collection.

He waited for the cabinet anyway, but declined to assemble it that afternoon. Back home, he crossed out the walk without replacing it. He stood at the kitchen window for several minutes, uncomfortable with having nothing to report. Then he went outside without checking the time. The diary stayed open on the table, its blank space no longer an invitation addressed to everyone else.