It started so innocently. It's not my fault I got dementia, aged 40.
| Last week I wrote a list of things to do. The first item was ... brace yourself ... 'Write shopping list'. I had a list in hand. I felt so organised and efficient. I felt like Barak Obama on one of Mitt Romney's bad days. I felt like I was going places. Like I was Laverne and Shirley in their opening credit sequence. You know: 'We're gonna make our dreams come true'. Anyway, trying not to get distracted by memories of 70s trashy TV sitcoms, I sat down and wrote that shopping list. But I forgot to then cross it off the original meta-list. So when I later lost the shopping list – and then forgot that I'd ever written it – I saw that it wasn't crossed off the meta-list, so I convinced myself that I hadn't written the list at all. So I rewrote it, even better than the first time, in lovely neat handwriting, remembering those obscure little things like two warm bayonet 15-watt energy-saver mini-globes. Just one thing: I lost that list too. The next day I wrote a new meta-list. The first item: 'Write shopping list on really large piece of paper'. I don't know why I seemed to attract such odd stares at the supermarket that evening, carrying around a wobbly sheet of A2 paper, the list written with a fat black marker pen in a font large enough for most any preschooler to feel at ease. Sure, people stared. But it was mostly going fine until I asked a woman if I could use her back as a support to tick off some items. And that, unfortunately, was when I was escorted to the station. The top item on today's meta-list: 'Print new shopping list on 400gsm mount-board'. I'm back in control. |  |
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