50. Losing it?

I worry a little these days that I may be ‘losing it’.  How do you know when you start to ‘lose it’?  I suppose that other people know before you do and I guess that, because there is not much that can be done, they just keep quiet about it and you never get to know. 

I’ve just seen a BBC news reporter who may have ‘lost it’ already and that’s sad as she’s only in her mid twenties.  She was standing on the beach at Bognor Regis and she was there to report on a partial eclipse that would be visible as the sun rose over the sea. 

“To see the eclipse you need to be as close as possible to the horizon,” she informed us with some assurance and authority. 

That conjures up an interesting scenario.  “Will you sail a little closer to the horizon please, Captain.  I’d like to get a better view of the eclipse.”

When my father was only four or five years older than I am now, he began to lose it.  He became a little vague and forgetful and he struggled with names.  My mother’s name was Pat and my brother is Peter and whenever he spoke to me during those years my father, in his confusion, always called me, “Peter-pat-terry.”

The first time that Caroline accused me of being senile and possibly ‘losing it’ was about three years ago as we were sitting together under a large parasol on a beautiful, hot Saturday morning at the Cracked Conch bar/restaurant by the sea on Grand Cayman.  Ten metres from us was a set of metal steps going down from the outside bar area into the beautiful clear water.  We watched numerous divers embarking on or coming back from their dives.  Two young boys went down the steps.

“Look at that,” I said, anxiously.  “Those two lads are going diving without scuba gear.” 

Caroline gave me a sad look.  “They’ll be snorkeling then.”

Twice in my life though, I have had a moment of insight that made me certain, for a minute or two at least, that I had special mental powers.  The first time was in February 1967 in the kitchen of a flat in Edinburgh.  It was about eight o’clock in the morning and my friend Ian and I had hitchhiked overnight from Durham.  I can’t remember now why we were there but I do remember that there was a pack of cards in the kitchen.

I took a card from the pack, held it to my chest and said to Ian, ”What card am I thinking of?”  He stared at me intently and then after about ten seconds said, “Five of clubs.”  It was!  We tried to repeat that phenomenon for the next hour but never did.

Some twenty-five years later, at about one o’clock in the morning, I was with Ian again but also with Roger and their wives.  We’d been eating and drinking for the previous five hours.  I left the room for a few minutes and when I returned I was told that they had a story and I was to unravel it by asking questions to which they could answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Does the story concern me? Yes.

Does it take place in Hertfordshire?  Yes.

Is it set in Borehamwood?  Yes.

There it was: “Borehamwood in three.”  Pretty impressive I thought.  I had managed to narrow down the place, out of all the millions places in the world where the story could be set, in just three questions.  Psychic?

No.  They had agreed to answer “Yes” to any question, the last letter of which ended A - K and “No” to a question that ended L – Z and see how the story developed.  Oh how we laughed (and still do)!

Yesterday I said something that produced that same look of pity and concern from Caroline that she had given me at the Cracked Conch. 

“We’re going to be rich,” I told her.  “I’ve had an idea for a gadget.  It’s brilliantly simple, has no moving parts and although no one but me realises it yet, it’s something for which the world has been waiting for a hundred years or more.  All I’ve got to do now is to produce a stereotype and take it on to ‘Dragons’ Den’.”

I put it down to all those years teaching students in the Peoples Republic of Haringey where we always had to actively suppress any thoughts of stereotypes.

It’s a good job that she had left for work and wasn’t at home this morning.  I had installed a new Cable Box for my television and then I phoned the company to ask them to activate it. 

“What can you see in the display panel at the moment?” the woman asked me.  “PL70,” I said.

“OK, that’s good.  Now, it takes about twenty minutes to activate but when it says 999, it’s ready,” she said but forty minutes later I was still waiting for 999.  I phoned again.

“It’s not worked,” I told her.  It says 852.  No, it’s just changed.  Now it says 853.  This is going to take hours.”

She sighed.  “That’s the time you’re looking at.  Press the red button.  What’s it say now?”

“999,” I muttered

I spoke to Mark on the phone on Wednesday. “Did you do that test I sent you?” he asked.

“What test?”

“The one that I sent you a few days ago.”

“Was it an e-mail?”

“Yes.”

A bell was ringing but it was only a little tinkle.  I vaguely remembered something. 

“No,” I said confidently.  “You never sent me anything.  I never got it.  You never sent me anything.”

“Yes I did - on Saturday.”

“No, I haven’t had an e-mail from you for weeks.” 

“Yes I did send you one.  It was about colours.  Hang on a minute and I’ll go to my ‘Sent Box’ and see if it’s there.”

There was a short pause while he must have been looking at his computer screen.  Colours?  Yes, maybe I did remember something about colours but what was it?

“Yes, there it is.”  Mark had left his computer.  “I sent it to you at the same time I sent it to Nigel and he told me he’s done it.  You have got it.  I bet you’ve deleted it without reading it.  Look in your ‘Deleted Box’.”

My computer wasn’t on so I kept quiet for about fifteen seconds, pretending that I was looking.

“No.  It’s not there.”

“OK,” Mark sighed.  “I’ll send it again but I bet you did get it.”

“No I didn’t,” I insisted, grumpily.  Maybe I was wrong but I didn’t remember getting it. 

“What’s it about anyway?”

“It’s a test to see if you’ve got Alzheimer’s,” he said.