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.)