Yesterday I collected my father from the south coast and drove him to Oxford and back to attend a function, a round trip of just over 200 miles.
On the journey, he told of the frustration of going to his local supermarket earlier this week and bumping into someone he had known for over forty years, but whose name – at that moment – he could not remember, for the life of him.
“Hello, Charlie …” said the old friend, ” … haven’t seen you for a while, how are you?”
“I’m alive” came the rejoinder.
“How old are you now, if you don’t mind me asking …”
“Well, I can give you a few years, but I’m bound to say I hope I look as hale and hearty when I get to your age …”
“Don’t be fooled …” said my father, ” … everything that can do has dropped off, and most of what’s left doesn’t bloody well work!”
With that, they then parted and my father drove home. Almost as soon as he had done so, he had to get back in his car and return to the supermarket. He’d forgotten to buy some postage stamps, which was the main reason that he’d gone there in the first place.