A forgotten title
Grandad February 9th, 2011
I have said before how I like the age I am.
Getting old has so many good points that I would be hard pressed to mention them all. Probably the best one is the ability to get away with just about anything. No matter what I say or do, people just look at each other and make some pitying remark about the sad old codger. The fact that I say and do those things deliberately is just part of the fun.
There is one aspect of aging that is genuinely pissing me off though.
The fucking memory has gone to the dogs altogether. I have heard of this phenomenon before and I didn’t really believe it, but it really is true that I couldn’t tell you what I had for breakfast but can remember the smallest details about things that happened years ago.
Most of the time, I get by by writing little notes to myself. There are little scraps of paper all over the house usually with telephone numbers on them and I can’t remember who the numbers belong to. Other scraps of paper have shopping lists on them where I have gone down to the village and bought everything on the list, only to go back down again later for something I had forgotten to write on the list, and hadn’t remembered when I was down there.
Another one that is always catching me out is the central heating. We have a strange looking yoke in the kitchen that looks like a wood burner, but in fact runs on kerosene. It is a great yoke and heats the whole house. The problem with it is that to fire it up, I have to open the oil tap and wait for a couple of minutes before chucking a match in. But I always forget and half an hour later, Herself will come in from the garden and ask why the heating isn’t on. By that time of course the fucking yoke has flooded and is very difficult to light. Take it from me, but a lake of kerosene is a lot harder to light than a small puddle. And it stinks the house out after.
Of course I get a load of exercise around the house, as I am forever going into a room and then forgetting why. That means I have to retrace my steps to see if I can remember why I wanted to go into that room in the first place.
The other great source of healthy exercise is my pipe. I am forever putting it down somewhere and then forgetting where. This means an extensive trek around the garden, the sheds, the garage and every room in the fucking house.
Who says smoking is bad for your health?
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