Twenty ways to improve memory.

I was going to print it off today.

Can’t remember where I read the fucking thing.

I have what you might call a hate-hate relationship with them.

My first memory of a telephone was of a black Bakelite thing that hung on a bracket in the hall.  It had one of those twirly dials that cut the finger off you if it was a long number.  The only good thing about that phone was that if the caller was boring, you could idly pass the time by untwisting and unknotting the cord to the hand piece.

Nowadays they are all cordless and mobile so I keep losing the fucking things.

Apart from losing them, I find that they are constantly needing recharging which is a bit of a bugger.  I normally leave the main phone charging in the junk room where no one can hear it, or else I bring it out to the living room where it promptly discharges, gets lost and ignores all incoming calls, which suits me down to the ground.  My mobile is a simpler matter – I have discovered that switching it off stops the battery discharging, so that’s the way I leave it.  Unfortunately when I want to use it I can never find it and there is no point in ringing it from the other phone as it’s switched off.

I had to make a few phone calls yesterday and today.  As luck would have it, the calls were all to State and Semi-state organisations.  Of course this involved using their fucking menu systems which drive me mad.  Each one is a five Prozac job.

The last call was a ten Prozac one.  I dialled the number and immediately this female with an oh-so-cheery-chirpy voice came on to welcome me to the company.  Then we had the obligatory warning that “all calls are recorded and may be used for training purposes”.  Why they can’t just warn us to watch our fucking language is beyond me.  Next she announced that their menu system had changed [why I don’t know, as I don’t know what their old system was like], and that I was to listen to the entire menu before making my choice.

The very first option was the one I wanted so I pressed “1”.  I swear to fuck she sighed at me.  There was a pause and then she ignored my attempts and continued the whole fucking way through the menu.  Then she asked me to make my choice.  I pressed “1” again and the whore then started off on another series of fucking options.  It is really no wonder they have that implied “watch your fucking language” notice at the beginning.

I swear if all companies ditched their fucking menu shit and employed real people it would make the world a better place to live in.

And we’d employ half the unemployed.

What’s wrong with zippers?

Have you never thought of Velcro?

But buttons?  For fuck’s sake.

Buttons on a fly are fucking lethal.

At my age I never know when I might need emergency access.

Fucking buttons!

Idiots.

No forty winks.

Not even one wink.

No dreams of Sharon.

On the other hand, no nightmares about being back working in RTE.

I hate those nightmares.

No reason for the no sleeping.

Just one of those little kicks in the nuts that life throws occasionally.

I’m tired.

In fact, I am fucking knackered.

Excuse me while I shut my eyes for a moment.

I started pondering that subject again last night having replied to a comment saying that I can be grumpy if I want to.

The single thing I enjoy most is the freedom.  From birth I relied on my parents and had to answer to them.  Then I started school and had to answer to them as well as my parents.  Over time, I left home, but by then I had a job so had to answer to my employers.  In all those years, my life wasn’t 100% my own.  I couldn’t dress exactly as I wanted.  I couldn’t take off on a holiday if I wanted.  I couldn’t even have a lie in if I wanted.

Since I retired, all that has changed.

For the first time in my life, I have total freedom to do what I want to do, and when to do it.  I don’t need anyone’s permission.  Fucking sweet!

If I wanted to, I could climb into the car right now and head off to the West for a weekend away.  Except that it’s raining and I don’t want to.  And that is the point – I am not going, because I don’t want to and not because some fucking jobsworth at work says I can’t be spared.

If I wanted to, I could wander around all day in the pelt.  I grant you that that does lead to the odd sideways glance when I nip [sic] down to the village for baccy, but that’s their problem.

I go to bed when I want to, and I get up when I want to.  If I decide to spend all day in bed then I shall.

No one can even dictate if I write this or not.  It is my choice, and if I want to stop then I wi

I mean I am in a really foul fucking rock-kicking shit-shifting mood.

No particular reason.

You can blame the full moon if you like.

Or the lunar eclipse [which I couldn’t see because it was fucking cloudy].

You can blame Bloomsday for all I care.

Herself has locked herself in the shed.

Wise woman.

The dog is hiding under the bed.

Wise dog.

I have to go out now and the car has a fucking puncture.

I think I’ll go and kill someone.

Talk amongst yourselves.

There was a time when my calendar would be full of  invites to birthday parties, weddings and various other occasions for celebration.

Nowadays all I get is fucking funerals.

I’m not much of a party animal anyway, but that’s beside the point.  The point is that funerals are so fucking depressing.  Unless there is a really decent wake involved, they are dry sober affairs that do little except remind me that I am that bit closer to my own.

Personally, I’m not bothered whether I have a funeral or not.  They can fuck me into the sea for all I care.  In fact, I rather fancy a Viking funeral where they float me out to sea and then fire flaming arrows until I burn and sink.  I would rather they wait until I’m dead first, but you get the idea.

A couple of years ago, I actually gad to buy myself a suit.  I fucking hate suits, and especially ties, but I was attending so many funerals, and the old jeans and sweater were beginning to attract attention.  Yet another reason to hate funerals.

The one and only good reason to attend funerals is that I can look at the box and be glad I’m not in it.

Yet.

Apparently there is no limit to life expectancy.

It seems to be possible that Herself and I will run the clock past the ton.

I have developed a healthy disrespect for researchers over the past few years, as they are only too keen to come up with some absurd conclusion just to please their paymasters.  This time however I think they have discovered the ultimate goal of science – to provide everlasting life.  Their studies have thrown up a conclusion which quite frankly amazes me.  It is a leap of faith, but with a bit of thought, one can see the possibility of a certain logic in their conclusions.  And this fantastic conclusion that leads to longevity?  The reason behind the steady rise in life expectancy is “the decline in the death rate of the elderly”, says Professor Tom Kirkwood from the Institute of Ageing and Health at Newcastle University.  You have to hand it to him.  He is prepared to stick his head on the block and risk the ridicule of his peers.

I have a lovely vision in my head right now.

Just picture it – Herself and myself sitting out in the garden in the sunshine as our K8 drops up for a visit.  Naturally, she will have Puppychild with her, not to mention Puppychild’s husband, five kids and nine grandkids, who will presumably be my great great grandchildren [see- if President O'Bama can trot out the 'grands' then so can I].  Sir Fartzalott will still be hanging out of K8′s shoulder, while his wife hangs out of the other.  Laughingboy will of course have driven up already in his solar-powered chair.

I wonder if I will still be writing this rubbish?

Who the fuck is Justin Bieber?

Apparently he is well known enough to bring the centre of Dublin to a halt, with crowds of screaming kids running amok, trying to find him.

Now I have never heard the name before, and for someone to blind-side me like that is pretty unusual.  I decided to further my education by finding out precisely who this little sod is.

The first thing I found out about him is that apparently he is in the top ten of The Most Popular Women on the Web.  I thought that must be a misprint, but apparently not.  Very fucking strange.

The second thing I noticed is that he is the image of Donny Osmond, which is enough to send shivers up my spine. This is like something out of The X Files. Are the Mormons into cloning?

Moving on, I decided to find out a little more about this freak.

Search terms that have been used on the Interweb -

“Justin Bieber takes estrogen pills”

“Justin Bieber molests fan”

“Justin Bieber removes left testicle” [what the fuck?]

“Justin Bieber hermaphrodite”

“Justin Bieber syphilis”

“Justin Bieber impregnated his mother”

and probably the worst of all -

“Justin Bieber converts to Scientology”

Either this is one weird fucking kid or else he would seriously need to gloss up his public image a bit.

And to think that in my day, pop stars were frowned upon by the elderly because they had long hair.

What the fuck is the world coming to?

As soon as a child becomes aware of age, he or she will loudly proclaim it to the world, and will even declare the quarters, as they are very important.  “I am four and a quarter” they will loudly proclaim and woe betide any parent who leaves out the all important quarter.

As they approach double digits, the quarters will be dropped as they are then perceived as childish.  The most important thing at this stage is to achieve the double digits, because then you are BIG.

Through the teens, a child will tell their age very grudgingly.  It’s not that they are ashamed of their age; it’s just that any information is parted with very grudgingly.  The goal at this stage is to reach that age where they can legally drive a car, or vote, or legally get hammered down the pub.

From the twenties on, age isn’t as important as it used to be.  Birthdays are celebrated as a routine rather than something significant.  Of course this is the period of The Big Four Oh, or The Big Five Oh which, like the turning of the New Year is just a matter of digits and has sweet all fucking significance, but it seems to make some people happy.

At my age, birthdays is an event which tends to catch us by surprise.   It creeps up on us, and the next thing is that we are wondering where the fuck the year went since the previous one.  People ask us how old we are, and instead of the figure tripping lightly off our tongues, we have to carefully calculate by subtracting our year of birth from the current year.  As we have usually forgotten what year it is, and the old maths aren’t as sharp as they used to be, this can take some time.  It’s easier to just forget we have a birthday in the first place.

Of course, I am now heading towards the next phase.  That is the phase where a birthday is more of a triumph than a celebration.  It’s another year where The Reaper has been cheated and a further year to piss off society by cluttering up the place.  I’m not looking forward to that phase, but I’m not dreading it either.  I’ll will take things as they come.

But the first person who mentions ‘young’ when giving my age had better be prepared to have their head caved in with a baseball bat.

‘Eighty years young?’

Fucking nauseating.