Procrastination is the downfall of the well-intentioned. 

As is usual, I know the canvass kit is there, awaiting my attention, to propel myself out the front door, onto the street, and into the business of knocking at doors to invite my neighbours to divest themselves of funds in support of charitable causes.  I detest, absolutely hate door-to-door canvassing.  But it's something I have compelled myself to be involved in for more decades than I care to recall.

I must be programmed for it.  Like an arachnid, spinning its web, hoping to catch unwary flies to satisfy its existential need.

When those calls come around, months before a charitable campaign for one thing or another is set to launch on its annual re-presentation, I often demur, and just as often succumb to the imploring voice at the other end, letting me know how much they depend on my volunteerism.

One of the campaigns I have never hesitated to become involved with is that of the Canadian Cancer Society.  Year after year I have gone out campaigning, writing out tax-deductible charitable receipts for those who give, offering literature to those who are curious. 

And this year, as usual, I have put off going out.  Usually, three-quarters of the way through the month of April I finally shove myself out the door.

This year, not yet.  I seem to be afflicted with some kind of inability to act; a temporary affliction, no doubt.  I meant to go out a few days ago, but the weather which had been so pleasant, when I should have begun last week, suddenly turned miserable. 

In place of warmth, sun and gentle breezes we now have sleet, wind and bone-chilling cold again.

I will get out there and fulfill my obligation as I always do.  It will just be done later than usual, this year.