By Isle of Wight Observer
Do people often interrupt you mid-flow and say, “You’ve already told me that”? People often interrupt me mid-flow and say, “You’ve already told me that.” Why do they find repetition irritating?
Recalling what you’ve already told someone isn’t that important is it? My memory isn’t failing, but I have a head full of stuff.
Honestly, there’s often so much going on up there, there’s very little room for trivia or detail. Unhelpfully, that sometimes includes anything my brain believes unimportant, birthdays, anniversaries, the birth weight of babies, receipts, bills, speed limits, or even where I’m supposed to be at any given moment. Surely, if people really loved you, they’d understand.
My hearing certainly isn’t what it was, but I’m not yet deaf. While watching TV drama, I struggle to hear what’s said, frequently asking, ”What’s going on?”, or “Who’s that?” Actually, it’s just a fact, modern actors mumble. When viewing alone, I’ll endlessly rewind or just give up. A senior BBC producer once told me that I had a “Good voice – suitable for broadcast”, so it can’t be me!
Why do people you live with insist on speaking to you from another room, or worse, while upstairs. Later, they swear they told you something which you had zero chance of remembering because you didn’t hear a word of it. Is that why older couples buy tiny bungalows?
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.” These days, I struggle to accept a lot of things, but I do understand that every new government blames all that’s wrong on the previous lot. Two months after an election, when people voted for hope, there doesn’t seem to be much of it around. All we’ve really learned so far is that, unless you’re a train driver, austerity is back, and pensioners are praying for a mild winter. Fourteen years ago, there was “No money left”, and blow me if it hasn’t happened again! Honestly, what hope can there be for any improvement in the way things are run when it takes two months just to find Richard Quigley an office at Westminster.
I’m also struggling to accept that very few people carry cash anymore. Recently, a woman queuing in front of me at Hurst’s didn’t have 26p, and yesterday, another didn’t have £1 to buy milk. On both occasions, I helpfully provided the money, but these were not acts of kindness. I was grumpily waiting behind both while they rootled around in their purses and handbags or attempted to find exceptionally-well buried cards.
I have (almost) learned to accept that roads close for no apparent reason. When Island Rogues close Yarmouth Bridge next week, I know they’ll have a little sport with us – and close the alternative routes too. Note to self: buy a horse and a byways map.
It’s tough to accept that, when you message your kids, they won’t always reply. As most young people seem incapable of being separated from their phone for more than a few moments; you must accept that you’re no longer important to them.
I’ve just been listening to Rob Delaney’s audiobook about the death of Henry, his youngest child. I thoroughly recommend it, but be warned, unless you have a heart of stone you’ll cry – a lot. His description of nappy changing, vomit and a thousand other intimate moments parents spend with their babies is brilliant. When they’re tiny, you can smell and kiss them as often as you like – they’re all yours, and if they like you, they’ll kiss you back.
I accept it’s inevitable that as they get bigger, they grow away from you. That’s much harder on mums than dads, I think.
Hopefully I’ll still be around when my lot finally remember how to reach me.