The Forgetful Man

I am a distracted, forgetful man. It’s true that the internet makes you stupid. In spite of having access to the accumulated wisdom of several thousand years of civilisation, constant internet access has reduced me to being a three-year old who has discovered a stash of chocolate and pictures of puppies. I can’t concentrate on anything for much longer than it takes to get pissed off with a Britain First post on Facebook.

Actually, anything on Facebook is a distraction. I was at a very good workshop today. Hello to any Bits on the Side who are reading this. I said during one of the sessions there that I would do the Hitler thing to Mark Zuckerberg if I could. Not kill him, but go back in time and prevent the coitus that resulted in him being born. Give Mark’s dad a spot of brewer’s droop or his mum enough of a headache to tell his dad to sod off. Of course, that would probably only result in all of us wasting time on My Space instead.

So, I am a distracted, forgetful man… Wait a minute.

I was forgetful and distracted long before I could blame Mrs Zuckerberg’s little boy for anything though. I’ve always been much more interested in the next thing than the thing at hand. Or the thingie at hand since I can’t always remember the word for the thing I have at hand. It’s as if the little name tag which is supposed to be attached to something falls off. I know that a table is a table that it’s not a hat, for example. I know that just because it’s got legs I don’t have to try to put trousers on it or take it for a walk.

A table, even a very expensive one, doesn’t have feelings. People do. That doesn’t stop me temporarily forgetting some names. I know Anne is my wife and I am daily ever more grateful for that. Nonetheless, I don’t always remember her name. She has, with her usual compassion, taken to introducing herself to my friends just so that I don’t have to stress out about it and spend time saying “Ummm…” Who would want to be known as Ummm Lyle, anyway?

If I can’t always remember the name of the woman I love, what chance does anybody else have? Bugger all, really.

Having said all that, I woke up very confused one morning last week. I’d had a very vivid dream that I was married to someone else and didn’t have a clue who the woman next to me was when the alarm went off. Alzheimer’s is going to be a complete sod.

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