Tuesday, 29 April 2014

Now, where was I?

Or - more to the point - what was it I was going to say?  I'm sure there was something I wanted to mention this morning, something I was musing on as I walked the dog in the park.  I say "walked", but in my advanced state of decrepitude, "ambled" would be a more accurate description.  I had pretty much written this blog in my head when Fern (that's the springer spaniel I was ambling with) spotted somebody she recognised and just had to say hello, so I passed the time of day with Chris (whom I have not seen to speak to for probably a couple of years) and what I had mentally com,posed just ambled away.

That, of course, is one of the challenges to be faced when one reaches my time of life - a memory just a little less sharp than it used to be.  In my case, that becomes quite a daunting challenge as my memory has never been exactly razor sharp.  Yes, I have, just occasionally, found myself in a room and asked myself why I had gone in there.  But I have not - yet - found myself in the middle of the stairs, wondering if I was going up or coming down.  That little pleasure is still to come.

Talking of pleasure...  And that's another thing about old age; one tends to drift off the subject more easily.  Probably because my attention span is not what it was.  Either that or it's something to do with the failing memory.

Anyway, pleasure.  That can actually come along with the failing memory.  Or as a result of the failing memory.  I find that I am able to watch repeats of many of my favourite old television shows just as if I am watching them for the first time.  I have no idea who did it or what happens next.  It's the same with books.  I visit the library and find a book by an author I like.  I read the blurb on the back cover and on the inside flap and nothing seems familiar.  I hand it to the assistant who informs me I have read it before.

"That's all right," I reply.  "It was a long time ago and I don't remember it."

"It was last month."



There's nothing special about today's picture, just a view across the fields on my cousins farm in deepest Somerset on a delightful spring morning.


(not necessarily your) Uncle Skip, said...

Who says there's nothing special about a photo of a scene on a delightful spring morning?

Brighton Pensioner said...

You're so right - it is (and was) rather special.