The Serious Memory Problems!
Apparently, I can remember the 1960s, but not whether I’ve had breakfast.
In some ways, I have an EXCEPTIONAL memory.
I remember being a baby.
I can recall entire conversations from sixty years ago.
Admittedly, I have no idea if I put trousers on this morning,
but hey, life’s full of trade-offs.
Today, I was up at 5am, as usual.
Fed the cats. Boiled the kettle. Poured water into my mug.
Then I realised… I’d forgotten the teabag.
That’s three days in a row now.
Funny, isn’t it?
I can remember forgetting to put the teabag in,
but can’t remember to put the bloody thing in.
If dementia ever arrives, I doubt I’ll notice.
I’ve become quite a recluse lately.
Apart from family and the cats,
I don’t see anyone for weeks.
Shopping? No thanks.
Driving? Meh.
Talking to people? OVERRATED!
I never get bored with my own company.
We get on wonderfully.
No arguments.
And if there is, I win.
I read somewhere that as men age,
they lose their friends.
True enough.
The few I’ve got left…
Honestly, I can’t be bothered to see them.
They’re all busy talking about their hip replacements anyway.
Is this what life is like at sixty-nine?
Probably.
But at least in Oslob, I can sit by the sea while ignoring people.
My nephews and nieces ferry me around
on my three-seat e-bike like some geriatric mafia boss.
All I’m missing is a small white cat to stroke menacingly.
Unfortunately, mine’s ginger and hisses at me.
Yes, I like it quiet.
Texting, emailing, replying to column comments –
all fun.
But dealing with humans in real life?
That’s getting less appealing by the minute.
Possibly by the second.
This week, one of my nieces decided to offload onto me.
Being a good uncle, I sat there
while she droned on about her new boyfriend.
Apparently, he can’t see her problems
the way she sees them.
I resisted the urge to tell her
that’s because he’s sane.
She blamed it on his lack of love.
Young women. Romance. Drama. Repeat.
Eventually, I explained:
You can’t expect others to think like you.
They’re not YOU.
She finally understood.
Both the philosophical depth of what I said,
and that I was itching to end the conversation.
Lele, my daughter, left today for a three-month holiday.
That means nagging in the house may reduce by 50% overnight.
The Dragon Lady (my wife) and Lele work as a tag-team,
nagging me over everything –
especially leaving the toilet seat up.
Here’s my logic:
If you leave it down, men risk dribbling on it.
If you leave it up, women just have to… put it down.
Simple.
And toilets have lids anyway.
I always put the lid down.
It looks tidier.
Apparently, that’s not acceptable either.
Who writes these toilet etiquette rules?
A woman with a death wish?
Anyway, no tag-team nagging for three months.
Bliss.
The Dragon Lady loves gardening.
Our garden is packed to the gills with plants.
Hundreds of pots.
Tomatoes, herbs, chillies, peppers, brassicas…
And who waters them?
Yes. Me.
Thirty or forty watering cans later,
I’m limping around like an arthritic donkey,
wondering how death by tomato plant dehydration
became my life’s great fear.
When she works late, it’s left to me.
I can almost hear them crying:
“Water us… or watch us die dramatically, Kevin.”
I hate passive-aggressive plants.
On our decking is the petting spot.
The cats jump up there to be worshipped
like the gods they think they are.
This week, Teddy, our pure white cat,
grew a dark spot above his right eye.
Would he let me look?
Of course not.
By the next day it was bigger.
Tick.
I hate ticks.
As a child, they’d bury into me
and swell up like grapes,
until my mother yanked them off with all the tenderness
of a medieval torturer.
Teddy wasn’t having any tweezers,
so I groomed it off him.
He meowed in disgust.
There it was – legs flailing,
searching for its next victim.
Being a pacifist, I thought:
“Even vampires deserve to live…”
So I flicked it onto the grass.
Moments later, a bird swooped down and ate it.
Circle of life. Hakuna bloody matata.
Anyway, that’s enough for today.
Time for my lunch.
If I can remember where the kitchen is.
buymeacoffee.com/KevinNairne