A lot of people have very irritating habits. I wonder how many have a very irritating habit which only irritates themselves.

I have. It's a habit that suggests I'm used to being involved in far more ongoing planned activity than I usually in fact am. What happens is: when I'm alone, and not immediately doing anything, and find myself with a few moments in which my brain isn't occupied (this doesn't necessarily mean I'm sitting on the sofa – I could be walking from place to place or other autopilot-driven sorts of activities), I'll sit back and relax. About five seconds later, apparently triggered by the act of sitting back and relaxing, a very strong reflex will cause me to metaphorically sit up and say to myself ‘So; what next?’; and then I'll begin to mentally take stock of my situation, review any ongoing plans I have in the middle of execution, and make a mental note of what I need to remember to do about them next.

This would probably be an extremely useful habit if I had a situation to speak of, if I remotely often had a complex master plan for my life, and if there was anything I needed to remember to do next. Sadly, this is not the case; my life is lived largely in a routine, and when I do have plans they're usually the sort that can be fulfilled through the mechanism of that routine. So what actually happens is I think to myself ‘So, what next?’, and then realise there is no ongoing planning activity I actually need to do right now. So I sigh with pleasure and settle back to actually relax. And then, five seconds later, because I've just relaxed, my brain goes round the same loop again. ‘So, what next?’ At which point I start to get annoyed, because whatever part of me triggers this mental stocktaking isn't getting the message that it's been done.

It wouldn't be so bad if I could work out how I acquired this habit. If I'd spent years of my life in incredibly complex situations and constantly being at risk of forgetting something vital, it would be an obviously reasonable habit to have picked up; but looking back over my life, I can't think of anything that would really fit that description.

Perhaps it's a sort of guilt reaction to the idea of relaxing and enjoying myself at all – perhaps, whenever I relax, some part of my brain wants to know whether there's something more important I ought to be doing instead. I wish I knew.