Tuesday, November 04, 2008

The troubles of George Eliot

(Sketch of a Glasgow Grandfather, Kilmartin Place, Arden.)

I keep forgetting myself more and more. Just the other day I was looking for my glasses ages I spent, hunting through the house. Lo and behold, where did I discover them? Perched upon my brow. A common stupidity I suppose. The obvious is easy to forget. A busy mind cruelly absentminded. Even Margaret is finally going spare. She bites her tongue mind. Honestly, only this morning, I said wearily to the postman as I walked to the newsagent:'Is it Saturday or Sunday, Son?' He said:'It's Friday.'

I was mortified, a tad disorientated too strolling cringing at my absentminded. Seriously, I'm forgetting everything, imagine. God help when it's something serious. God forbid I should forget something vital that could lead to serious danger. I'm looking at trying out those brain train games. They are meant to work quite well I hear. Keep dotage at bay. Keep you alert. Keep you from losing it completely. I mean, I'm a grandfather, now.


Hugh McMillan said...

Too true. Just when you're old and wise enough to enjoy your life, you start to disintegrate. Happens to us all.....

What was I saying?

McGuire said...

Cheers, Shug.

Old age can be quite charming especially 'approaching old age' rather than being old. Perhaps I could use this character in a story later, it's a good strong archetype.

cheers for
yir ears.

Jim Murdoch said...

Effective character study. It's a horrible thing when your memory starts to go. Especially for a writer.