The kettle again

Go back to the kitchen in chapter 1. You fill the kettle and switch it on. Your hand goes to your pocket, because it's been doing that for ten years, and the pocket is empty. The phone is on the shelf in the hall with the ringer on.

So you stand there. For the first few seconds there's a small itch, the one chapter 2 called the main payment. It passes. You look out of the window, where next door's cat is on the shed roof again. You notice that your lower back aches and that you've been putting off ringing the dentist. You remember that it's your turn to bring biscuits on Thursday. The kettle clicks off. You make the tea while it's hot.

That's all the change looks like from outside, and nobody would notice it. I've tried throughout this book not to oversell it, and I won't start now. You won't become a different person. The research I've described is mostly small studies that point in one direction without proving it. The method in chapter 12 is sensible, I think, but untested as a whole. Your hand will still go to your pocket for a long while.

What I'm confident of is the narrower claim I began with. An errand and a reach are different acts. The reach promises a rest and mostly doesn't provide one. The empty moments it uses up were worth something. And the habit lives in your routines, which means it's yours to alter, with a shelf in the hall and one short question.

If you do one thing after closing this book, make it the question. The next time the phone is in your hand, ask what you picked it up for. If there's an answer, carry on, and put the phone down when you've finished. If there isn't one, put it down now. Whatever is on it can wait until you next have a reason to look.