Below we can see that a weekend's critical moment falls between the hours 6 and 7 on Friday evening, so was decided the course of events over the last two days. A microcosmically complete foreshadowing occurred in this short period, though whether it should have served as warning or invitation is still hard to tell. What is clear is that the pattern was familiar – a coherent addition to weekends past and no doubt future – and in those critical instants the decision to heed or accept, however good or devious my intentions, was utterly arbitrary
Good intentions are, for example, routinely blown out of the window come 4pm. This is when my office indulges in the fuzzy practice of Friday beers. Two hours left on the clock – what harm can it do? On a corporate level, not much; to me personally, plenty. As soon as that first ignorantly-welcome sip touched my lips, I could effectively forget about Saturday's planned trip to the gym, the track I've been failing to make for weeks and, potentially disastrously, a romantic day out with the other half. Two hours later I was in a bar cracking open a bottle of wine, organising a shady rendez-vous with a man by the name of Dirk. The latter took place half-an-hour later and my fate was all but sealed.
