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I have bad, unproductive weeks all too frequently.

I feel guilty for being so easily distracted, but evidently, that guilt has no impact on my ability to focus.

At the start of the week, I’ll be telling myself I’ll need to make up all of my unproductive hours, but by the end, I realise it’s a lost cause.

If I am feeling charitable to myself, I will recall all of those colleagues taking long-term sick leave on full pay for their own psychological burdens.

At least I am at work, I console myself, offering something back to my organisation and the people we serve.

But these positive vibes are short-lived because I know I will ultimately be held to account for these days worked, with little to show for the compensation I receive.

It’s true that there’s a growing realisation that my behaviour is intimately linked to executive function: that I have cognitive deficits impacting every aspect of my life.

But that’s not much consolation. It doesn’t offer me a way out or an excuse. It’s just an explanation.

All that remains is that futile hope I’ll be able to cram twenty hours of work into Friday. High hopes indeed.