203. How do You Know?

Recently, there seem to have been a lot of news features on television about older men suffering from dementia.  As I am now well entrenched in the ‘old age’ category of the population, becoming demented is something I think about now and then.

Quite how old I am was forced into my consciousness this afternoon when, completing a survey from The Stables, a nearby music venue, I was asked to indicate my age by putting a tick next to the right category.

How insensitive of them.  I was given 14 rows to peruse with the first being 0-14 and the last was 75+.  Why have groups of 5 and not 10 years?  

36-45 would be much more sympathetic than 36-40 followed by 41-45.  Then, I would have put my tick in the eighth row and not the fourteenth.  It would still have been at the bottom of course, but at the bottom of a much smaller tower.  It wouldn’t have made me feel and appear quite so ancient.  Incidentally, the final age group on the NHS website is 91+.  That’s more like it.

Every day for the past 20 years or so, I have completed a Sudoku puzzle rated “Super Fiendish”.  At first, I did them because I enjoyed the challenge but recently, while doing one I keep thinking something like, “This must be helping to put off dementia.”

There is a timer on the screen ticking away as I do the puzzle.  I don’t know why it’s there and I never used to pay any attention to the time it took me to complete a puzzle but nowadays, I do keep an eye on the clock.  Today, it took me 37 minutes and that is worryingly slower than usual, especially as Caroline rattled it off in 9 minutes.

This brain damage business reminds me of something that happened ten years ago.  We were in France on holiday with Caroline’s sister and her family.  Oscar, Joanna’s elder son, who was 12 years old at the time, was playing around on the roof of a shed.  He slipped and fell, landing on his head and was unconscious for a short time.

As soon as he came round, the questioning began to see if he was OK.  

“Where are we?” asked his mother.  

“Talais in France.”

“What day is it?” Caroline asked him.  

“Thursday.”

“Say pi,” said Timo, Oscar’s ten-year-old brother. 

“3.1415926535897” Oscar began.

“OK, that will do,” interrupted his Mum.  “You’re fine.”

“93238462” 

“Stop now.”  

“64338327950288”

“Stop it!” bellowed his Mother.

“197, but I used to know the first five hundred,” Oscar mumbled, almost tearfully.

In 2008, when I was in Broward Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, recovering from my liver transplant, I was asked questions by a doctor I had never seen before to find out how my brain was coping after weeks in Intensive Care.  I can still remember three of the questions I was asked. 

“Who was the last left-handed President?”

“Sorry, I’ve no idea.”

“Who’s in charge of The Department of Education?”  

“Ed Balls, I think.” 

“What state are you in?”

“Very ill, I suppose.”  

I don’t know if that doctor knew I was English and not American.  If he didn’t, I expect he thought I was showing signs of dementia.

202 A Quiet, Ordinary Day

I got out of bed on Wednesday morning thinking that the day to come would be yet another quiet, ordinary day spent sat in my comfy recliner, reading a newspaper, doing online puzzles and then planning and preparing that evening’s food.  There was, however, one thing I knew that I had to do and I expected it would cost me around £35.

The day before, on Tuesday evening, Caroline had left her office and as she approached the car, had seen a note on the windscreen.  It read ‘YOU HAVE A FLAT TYRE’.

The KIA EV6 doesn’t carry a spare but every one of its very expensive tyres contains a sealant that supposedly fills holes made by an intrusion.  In this case the sealant had clearly not worked.  The screw that had punctured the tyre was too large.

Our car insurance includes AA breakdown cover and so Caroline called them. Within an hour, the problem was fixed and she could drive home.  The man from the AA had warned Caroline that his fix was only temporary and she should get it repaired properly as soon as possible.  While Caroline went to work in the Mini on Wednesday, my job was to have the KIA’s tyre repaired.

At FastFit, the tyre mechanic told me that a repair was impossible and I needed a new tyre.  He said that the presence of the sealant made reparation impossible.  I suspected that this was just a line to get me to buy a new tyre and so I went outside, sat in the car and made some phone calls.  I found out that he was right.  The tyre was irreparable and so I went back into the tyre company’s office and ordered a new tyre

“£250 please.”

Back in the car, I pressed the start button.  I saw messages that I’ve never seen before.  One said, “12 volt battery low”, while another read, “Press the start button with the key fob”.  I did that and the screens went completely black.  The car would not start.

I called the AA and within 30 minutes a yellow AA van pulled up next to me in the car park.  After doing some tests I was told that the 12 volt battery was not charging and I need to have a new one.  Luckily, he carried one.

“£215 please.” *

When I got home, the post had been delivered and an ominous brown envelope was lying on the mat.  In October last year, I drove into London and according to a letter from the Metropolitan Police that I received a few days later, I went through a red traffic light.  I didn’t think I had but on November 2nd, I phoned to pay the £60 fine.  

The reference number on the letter the police had sent did not match any that the call handler could find and so he told me to hang up and they would either send me another letter or phone me.  

I heard nothing from them until more than four months later in early March when I got a letter advising me that as I had not paid the fine in the time allowed, I was either to attend a court hearing or fill in an online form.  The form asked all kinds of intrusive questions including ‘What is your monthly income net of tax?’

The brown envelope glaring at me from the door mat contained a letter headed ‘Result of court case’.  The fine I have to pay is made up of three components.

Fine                             £216.00 and 3 penalty points

Costs                           £50.00

Victim surcharge         £86.00       Victim?  Surely that’s me.

The last line of the letter is: If you don't pay, you could be sent to prison for non-payment.

“£352 please.”

I phoned the number on the letter and explained that I had tried to pay the fine last year but because of their incompetence and through no fault of mine, I had been unable to.  I was told there was no record of that call (what a surprise!) and that I had 28 days to pay the amount stated.  

So, my quiet, ordinary day cost me £817.00, three penalty points and a threat of imprisonment. 

* In 1977, a new 12 volt battery for my Honda Z cost £5.00.  That's £40.00 today, allowing for inflation