I wrote this before the five heatwaves of 2026.
What has happened to me? Having turned 70 this year, I find that my mind and body, recognising my senior status, have declined appropriately. I suppose this could be due to the inclement weather – all that rain, turning my brain to mush. Could it be that, like the rest of nature, I need sunshine to thrive?
Fellow seniors will remember the historical summer of 1976. We probably know where we were when it started to rain after forty days and forty nights. I was, in fact, at a party. There were many parties in those days. Much drinking and carousing and driving home as the sun rose. Ah…
Anyway, in 1976, when the huge splots of rain began to fall, someone shouted, ‘Rain!’ and a cheer went up. Everyone rushed outside to dance in it, raising our arms and our faces in worship. Among the celebrations, one guy lay beside a bush in comatose oblivion and we left him lying, face up. He did survive.
The way things are going, unlike the summer of 1976, we’ll be recalling the Thursday of 2026.
So, to return to my mental decline: tonight, the doorbell rang. I peered through the glass in the door to see a cheery salesman waving. As the dog was in the hall and liable to escape, I opened the door a crack and glared at this man, carrying his bag of dusters or whatever we usually get. ‘I can’t open the door because of the dog,’ I snapped.
‘He smile brightly and in an American accent replied, ‘Oh, that’s okay, I understand,’ and stepped towards me.
My poor, confused brain clicked into action at last. This was no salesman. This was a man who had travelled all the way down the country from Chester and was arriving, knackered and hungry, to sleep in one of our Airbnb rooms.
Full of apologies, I pulled him inside. He seemed unfazed, but I was horrified. One of the things we get rated on is the standard of our welcome. Judging by his later 5* review, I recovered the situation with the help of much gushing and a sneaky look at the calendar to remind me of his name.
I’ve actually been dim in particular ways my whole life. I’ve wandered around in a dream, forgetting things and getting lost with the best of them. A friend once explained that this is because I am creative. I try to take comfort in that but honestly? I think I just have a mental screw loose. As an example if one were needed: the last time we went camping, I paid a visit to the toilet block. It was broad daylight so I have no excuse for the fact that on the way back, I boldly unzipped the wrong tent. The tent didn’t even look like ours! The startled look on the man’s face will remain with me always.
Well, maybe not always the way things are going…
Going back further to a long ago life, I once owned a delicatessen shop in Mold, North Wales. I know! What a town to have a deli. Boxes would arrive labelled Mold Deli. Clearly a good place to find blue cheese.
That was a busy and time-consuming job but I loved it. I’m a foody so why wouldn’t I? But during this all consuming career there was little time for a personal life. There was also a need for quick meals that could not always be provided by my stock or from my repertoire.
Across the road from the deli was an Iceland store, where I would sometimes call at the end of my day for a few items. I would normally enter Iceland through the automatic front doors, and leave with my purchases the same way, to return to my car, parked behind the deli.
On this occasion though, I needed to exit via the back door of Iceland. With a heavy bag in each hand and in a hurry as always, I stood in before the door, impatiently waiting for it to open.
An assistant passed by.
‘I think your door is broken,’ I observed.
Giving me a funny look, she replied, ‘Just push it, Madam.’ Doh!
I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not alone. Whizz has many stories of supporting equally dim persons in his employment in IT.
A student called IT support to report that her computer screen was not working. Support was busy so she had to wait three days without a useable computer before a technician reached her. He did the usual things, checked the connections, rebooted the machine and then, upon discovering the problem, explained to the student that before calling Support in future, she should make sure the screen was not turned down to dim.
‘I think it was the student who was dim,’ commented Whizz.
In a similar story, the person needing support was on the phone complaining about his new computer. Having taken the caller through various actions and upon discovering some stupidity that had not warranted the call, the support person said, quite calmly to the caller, ‘Do you still have the box your computer came in?’
‘Yes,’ the person responded.
‘Well,’ the support person continued, ‘Carefully pack it back into the box…
AND SEND IT BACK. YOU ARE TOO STUPID TO BE IN CHARGE OF A COMPUTER.’
Whizz is not dim. That’s why he’s called Whizz. He has a quantity of connective synapses in his brain that matches the dearth in mine. But in recent months, he has struggled to remember names – of people and even of places and things.
In some ways, the knowledge that he struggles with aspects of his memory is comforting. Not for him of course, but it makes me feel more adequate. I do worry, though. What if he gets worse? How will we function? I, his senior by seven years, have always assumed I’d be able to rely upon his sharp brain, as mine sinks gently into oblivion. But what if it’s the other way round? What if I have to remember things for him? Life will take a marked downturn as we find jars of jam in the freezer, carrots in vases, clothes in the dishwasher and ice cream in the tumble dryer.
Oh well, we have kids.
Buckle up girls.