I’ve always been chronically absent-minded. There’s usually so much going on
in my head that great wodges of it get spiked on the mental ‘pending’ file – out of reach of the instant
recall mechanism. I tend to forget stuff.
So sue me.
Susie, who is to pessimism what Michelangelo was to painting
ceilings, and habitually sees everything
going on around her in the light of a hypothetical worst-case situation, is
convinced that I’m sliding pell-mell into senile dementia.
But the good news is that I’m not going batty. How do I know that? Because my GP, the
admirable Dr Williams, told me so. She took me through the standard NHS Are-You-Turning-Into-A-Gaga-Old-Fart
Test yesterday, (and I bet you didn’t know there was one) which I passed with
flying (if slightly tattered) colours.
However, in this instance I can understand Susie’s concern. When I went to see the doc some weeks ago for
a general health check, she suggested we make an appointment to do the test
aforementioned. Just in case. So we agreed a date and time, which she wrote
down on a piece of paper for me, and when I got home I entered the details into
the computer which rules my life, and told it to remind me a few days before
the due date.
Which it duly did. But there was one small problem. Could I
remember why I was going to see her? Could I buggery. Complete blank.
“Suse” I said “Why am I going to see the doctor on
Wednesday? I can’t for the life of me remember.”
“That’s exactly why! Because your memory’s shot” (the word “dickhead”, though unspoken, hung
in the air.)
So – I’m Idly
looking through the magazine shelves in Asda while waiting for Susie to put her
lottery on (a triumph of hope over experience, but never mind) when an
interesting looking title caught my eye along at the far end of the rack. Great – I thought - a new humorous mag in the Private Eye or Viz genre. So I walked over to have a closer look, only to find
that it was about sitting on a river
bank catching bloody fish