Ian McMillan: Remind me, what am I supposed to be doing?

I put my book down with what I hoped was a pointed sigh. I was about to say something to him when I noticed that he looked annoyed, too. ‘That’s interesting’ I thought, ‘he listens to music that drives him to distraction and he’s too daft to switch it off. What does that say about life in the 21st century?’ Then a woman down the carriage began to look up at luggage rack. My neighbour took his headphones off and looked up too. The noise continued, a chirruping, a peeping, a tune that never varied.

Then I realised what it was: an alarm clock. Not only that, I worked out to my horror it was my alarm clock, my trusty old three quid alarm clock that has stood me in good wake-up stead for years and years, going off today for no apparent reason at 07.15 when I’d set it for 05.45.

To be honest, although I often set it, I very rarely sleep through until the alarm goes off. Somehow the act of setting it seems to be an early warning signal to my brain to wake up a second before it goes off.

And now here it was, going off and off and off in my overnight case, annoying the whole carriage. Beetroot-cheeked, I got it down and switched it off. I made a half-hearted joke about it being time to get up, about it being the best three quid I ever spent, and of course nobody laughed. The train rumbled on.

An alarm clock doing its job on a train is a useless object, let’s face it. Alarm clocks are meant to drag you from slumber, not humiliate you near Tamworth. They’re a reminder that it’s time to get up; a forceful, loud, annoying reminder but a reminder nevertheless.

As I settled back into my book I began to think about the way that reminders dominate our lives, that as the pace of life has speeded up, so our reactions to it seem to have slowed, and so we need more reminders. But the reminder has to work properly or it’s just a lump of ticking nothing.

I thought about more gentle reminders, and how we use them. I’m sure I’m seeing an increase in the amount of people with words and numbers written on the backs of their hands. Cheaper than a notebook; less time-consuming than sending yourself an email.

When I see them, I try to remember them: I once saw one that said RING DAD 3 and it puzzled me for the longest time. Did somebody have to ring their dad at three o’clock or did they have to ring Dad number three or did they have to get a size three ring for Dad? I once saw one that said 21 in huge blue letters across the whole of the meaty hand, and I longed to have the courage to lean over and ask about the significance of the number.

Then there are notes on the fridge or scribbled addenda on kitchen calendars: Pick Up Kids/Buy Milk/Ring Dad 3. Whenever I go to someone’s house, I’m noticing that the door of their fridge is a cross between a library, a tourist information centre and an art gallery. There are reminders stuck to reminders and I’m sure there are some fridge doors that display reminders of reminders.

Our lives are governed by reminders to such an extent that once, when the writing and broadcasting work got a bit slack, I contemplated setting up a bespoke reminding service called Nudge Me. Wealthy people would pay a fortune to get to me to ring them to remind them to pick the kids up from school and take them to their ballet class. I even practised my telephone manner: “Hello, Nudge Me Reminder Service; we remember it so you don’t have to. You’re speaking to Ian: remind me, how can I help?”

I was particularly pleased with that “remind me” gag at the end: I should have been in advertising. I never got very far with the scheme because, to be frank, I had too much to do and although I kept reminding myself to do some more work on Nudge Me, I never seemed to find the time. Maybe I’ll try and live a Reminder Free Week. Now that’s worth a try.

Mind you, I know I had something vital to do today, but I can’t recall what it is. I’ll check the fridge door. Ah yes: write column.

Well reminded!