Wednesday, February 16, 2011
(I nicked the photo from here)
"Is that what I wrote?"
"Yes. It was. It was very lovely."
"Bugger. I should be remembering this stuff, it is all very important. I feel a tit."
"You've a lot on your mind. It's probably hormonal."
It comes to something when you can't remember even the smallest gist of something of intense personal relevance you wrote not a week ago. Indeed, it is more than even faintly embarrassing to have to be reminded by the muse herself of the content of the brief missive she had inspired. This is very worrying, especially when, not two hours earlier, I had recounted to the ex, and in tiny detail, an episode regarding the purchase of some clothing at a jumble sale 9 years ago, even the exact price of the item and how much we managed to flog it for on ebay (10p and £38, if you must know and it was bought at a jumble sale in Bedford St, near the Scout shop. We got there early and had to queue outside, like tramps outside MacDonalds at closing time. See?)
Last week at the self-serve checkout I had to go through the alphabetical pictures of the fruit and veg to try and remember what the sodding hell the large shiny black thing I was holding was called. Luckily aubergine begins with an A and I didn't have to suffer the indignity of asking someone for confirmation and then having to be guided to a chair and asking whether there was anyone she could call, dear.
Of course I'm worried. My memory has always been a bit of a source of pride and occasionally even good-natured ribbing. It is the repository of all kinds of useless shite that occasionally comes in handy, especially when people you think you haven't been listening. It's a bit of a shame it was never that good at storing the stuff that was deemed important at school but that could probably be put down to the fact that I almost certainly wasn't listening and may even have been asleep. I will make an appointment, if I remember.
Elsewhere: End of an era? Like Hell. Expect occasional added harridan.