What has happened to me? I turned 70 this year and my mind and body have recognised my senior status and declined appropriately. I suppose it could be the weather – all that rain might be turning my brain to mush. Perhaps, like the rest of nature, I need sunshine to thrive (I wrote this before the five heatwaves of 2026).
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, and when the huge splots of rain began to fall, a cheer went up and everyone rushed outside to dance in it. One guy was passed out beside a bush and we left him lying, face up, getting drenched, oblivious. The way things are going, unlike the summer of 1976, we’ll be recalling the sunny 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 to me. As dog was in the hall and liable to escape, soI 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. I was full of apologies and he seemed unfazed. But I was horrified. One of the things we get rated on is that standard of our welcome. I hope the situation improved 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, wandering around in a dream. A friend once explained that this was because I was 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 there was little time for a personal life and a need for quick meals that could not always be provided by my stock. Across the road from the shop 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 doors at the front and leave the same way to return to my car, which was 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, ‘You just push it, Madam.’
I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not alone. Whizz tells of a student who 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 then, upon discovering the problem, explained that there was nothing wrong with her machine, she just had the screen on dim. ‘I think it was the student who was dim,’ commented Whizz with his usual quick wit. 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 seriously to the caller, ‘Do you still have the box your computer came in?’
‘Yes,’ the person responded.
‘Well,’ the support person said, calmly ‘Carefully pack it back into the box… AND SEND IT BACK. YOU ARE TOO STUPID TO BE IN CHRGE 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 I do worry. What if he gets worse? How will we function? I, his senior by seven years, have always assumed I’ll be able to rely upon his sharp brain, as mine sinks gently into oblivion. But what if it’s the other way round? There will be jars of jam in the freezer, celery in vases, clothes in the dishwasher and ice cream in the tumble dryer.
Oh well, we have kids.
Sorry girls.
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