Not so much when I'm working, perhaps, especially not early shift two days running; but I lost a couple of days this week to sickness or (oddly) holiday or simply the fact that it's July, when memory stops working anyway. Only that usually requires a hot July, and this isn't. What one of my casual LJ reads called 'the returned polar vortex' of this week left again without my forming a concrete impression of it; it sort of happened in the background as I was reading Astreiant. Now we're back to warm and muggy and overcast, as we were last weekend.
"Time wakens a longing more poignant than all the longings caused by the division of lovers in space, for there is no road back into its country. Our bodies were not made for that journey; only the imagination can venture upon it; and the setting out, the road, and the arrival: all is imagination."
Edwin Muir, An Autobiography (The Hogarth Press 1954), page 224.
Well, maybe. But I find the past ambushing me quite arbitrarily, lurching back in zombie- or rapture-fashion, so that quite suddenly it's 2007 (as this week) or 1982 (as happened one day last December) or, well pretty much whenever. I gather this isn't a common experience for other people.