There’s something that’s always puzzled me, and the older I get, the more it puzzles me…
What was I talking about again? I so easily lose my train of thought nowadays. Ah yes! Trains!
Why are they called trains? Are they trained to go in one direction? Because they don’t really have a choice, you know…
Aha! That’s what I wanted to talk about. Memory! And how age affects our memory.
The younger generation tend to make jokes about it, but wait till they forget where the adult nappies are when they go to the supermarket! See who’ll be laughing then!
Well, it won’t be us, cause we’ll be dead; it’ll be the younger generation. Curses on their pure unwrinkled, but surely sullied skin. They laugh at us and get away with it.
Recently Desmond Tutu (not the ballet dancer, that’s another tutu altogether) was invited to officiate at the opening of an old-age home. After the ceremony was over, he was having a cup of tea, when an old dear motioned to an empty spot on the couch next to her. ‘Sit down over here, ducky.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ he enquired.
‘No, but if you go to the desk, they’ll tell you.’
Now, I swear on the life of him who resides in Ermelo that this story is true. After all, would I lie? Be honest now!
I’m still trying to remember what puzzles me. I suppose I don’t type fast enough.
Wee Jock McMurdoch strides into an old-age home and makes his way to the counter. Now he’s a true Scotsman, unlike the fallacy. He’s wearing his clan tartan and sporran, with the wee beret and a sprig of thistle-leaf in it.
The receptionist looks up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Aye, I wan’ tae register.’
She looks askance at him. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I wan’ tae register,’ he repeats.
‘But why? You’re not old enough!’
‘No’ old enough> Hoo old d’ye think I am?’
He laughs raucously. ‘Fifty-nine?! Feck, I’m eighty-five!’
‘But still, you’re so vital,’ she says. ‘Why would you want to come here?’
‘Ach, m’ son disnae wan’ me at hame anymoor. He says I get in th’way.’ He shakes his head in disgust.
The receptionist gives him the forms and he completes them, sans glasses. She takes the forms back from him and says, ‘Would you like to walk around a bit and acquaint yourself with the place and some of the people? I’ll just process these forms.’
‘Och, that’ll be fine, lassie,’ he says and walks over to two old men sitting and looking at him. ‘Hey! Hoo old d’ye think I am?’
‘Sixty?’ ventures the one old man.
‘Sixty-two?’ ventures the other.
He laughs again. ‘Feck, I’m eighty-five!’ They shake their heads in wonder and he makes his way over to this old biddy watching TV.
‘Hey, lass, hoo old d’ye think I am?’
She looks up at him searchingly, then says, ‘Let me feel under yer kilt, an’ I’ll tell ye.’
‘Aha! A wee Scottish lass. Feel away, lass, feel away!’
Well, she puts her hand under his kilt and feels around for a while and, once she’s satisfied she’s got the required reaction, says, ‘Eighty-five.’
‘Tha’s feckin’amazin’! Hoo d’ye do it?’
‘I heerd ye tellin’ them two.’
Now you must by now realise I’m killing time trying to remember what it is that puzzles me. Ah, now I remember!
Last week our church had a revival, which was fine, but I don’t ever remember our having a vival in the first place. Maybe it’s a sign of creeping dementia.
And when someone is pulled out of the water and resuscitated, were they resuscitated in the first place?
And where are the sung heroes?
Are derpants the opposite of underpants?
And judges: why are they referred to as ‘My Lord’?
A man was hauled before a court in London for drunk and disorderly behaviour: ergo, throwing a dustbin through a shop window.
The prosecutor says to him, ‘You’ve already pleaded guilty as charged, but I’m in interested: why did you throw the dustbin through the shop window?’
‘Aah!’ He shakes his head. ‘I was as drunk as a judge.’
The judge leans across and says, ‘The expression is “drunk as a lord”’.
‘Yes, my lord.’
See? They bring it on themselves. And this was not even Judge Nkola Motata!
So my memory has returned, which is good, because Pea Eye is calling, calling, calling…