Tripping Up, and Down, Memory's Lane

I digress. Often. And a call for Beta Readers.

Hello again,

Memories are fickle beasts, aren’t they? After a recent tussle with my memory banks, I wrote the following piece, and I present it here, after a brief visual metaphor:

The lane leading from our village

It all started to go wrong with the vitamin pills. Mrs C had finished breakfast and had gone upstairs to get ready for work, leaving me to finish my concoction of fruit, yoghurt, granola and sundry other ingredients. I poured my tea and took my pills from the bottles we keep on the table. These supplements are almost certainly a waste of time. We have an excellent diet, crammed with fresh fruit and veg and home-cooked food every day. But take them, I will. Belt and braces. After all, at my age and with a vegan diet, it’s best to be safe and make sure I have the full complement of minerals and so on.

There are three pills: a multivitamin, a magnesium supplement and some omega wossnames derived from flax seed. A white pill, a sort of brown speckled one and a yellow capsule.

All three duly swallowed with tea, I cleared my breakfast dishes away, returning a moment later with the sense of a job well done.

And I stood, staring at the table in stunned horror.

There, sitting neatly on my placemat were three pills: one white, one with brown speckles and one yellow capsule.

Was this the moment I’d been dreading, the moment when I finally lost my grip on reality?

I remembered swallowing the pills, but where was that memory being dragged up from? Yesterday? The day before?

Or was there a more sinister explanation?

Was this a conspiracy by Mrs C? Gaslighting? An effort to poison me with an overdose of Magnesium?

Or had Mrs C kindly put my supplements ready for me, and I hadn't seen them because I’d plonked my bowl down without looking, hiding them from view?

I think we all know the answer. I am rarely observant before breakfast. Indeed, I am probably not worth talking to. I believe Oscar Wilde said that only dull people are brilliant at breakfast, and I see myself as living proof.

But after breakfast, on this particular day, things hardly improved.

In an attempt to revive a long-suffering houseplant, I spilled water over a framed photo of my grandparents, and the moisture rapidly seeped behind the glass, no doubt thanks to capillary action (or sod's law). I took the frame apart just in time, and there was no real harm done, thank goodness.

Aside: Sod's law, chiefly British, is the idea that if something can go wrong, it will go wrong.

Even so, it was clearly going to be one of those days. Morning coffee ought to have brought some relief, but I contrived to sip it too soon, scalding the roof of my mouth.

At this point, I gave up keeping track of the petty annoyances ranged against me. These things are minor inconveniences, best ignored. But a quiet suspicion lingers in the back of my mind. Are these the ‘senior moments’ my grandparents and then my parents spoke of in their turn?

Certainly there are times when names and facts seem more elusive than they used to be. But then again, we are bombarded by information for every minute of every day.

Take films as an illustrative example. When I used to watch a handful of films in any given year, I chose wisely and remembered them well. But now, with streaming platforms piping an endless torrent of entertainment directly to every digital device I own, I am adrift in a sea of visual stimuli. Is it any wonder that I can't remember which middle-of-the-road actor was in which mediocre film? These films were not meant to be remembered, but consumed.

I don't think this makes me a movie snob, by the way, but I do love a good film, and they seem to be in short supply.

But I digress.

Is my memory what it was? Probably not. Still, I'm doing my best to hold on to the neurones I've got left. I've forsworn the booze, and I get plenty of exercise, lots of good food and a reasonable amount of sleep. My work keeps my mind active (perhaps sometimes too active), and I have time to read every day, so I'm doing okay.

It’s an uphill run to this reservoir, but worth it

I lose track of dates, but I've always had a relaxed attitude toward any kind of advanced planning. So when faced with an imminent appointment, I generally deny all knowledge. At these moments, Mrs C tends to frame her reply along the lines of, ‘I've told you three times about this. It’s in the calendar!’

How she puts up with my intransigence, I will never know, but I suspect it's something to do with patience.

‘Patience is a virtue,’ my mum used to say, adding, ‘keep it while you can, found rarely in a woman, and never in a man.’ It may not be politically correct, but if the cap fits…

Well, I've happily lost track of time as I tap at the keys, so I'll wrap it up.

Now, what was I supposed to be writing about?

PS - Beta Readers Please

As you may know, I’ve been busily rewriting the very first Devonshire Mystery story, A Study in Stone. The new version is a full-length novel, and there’s more of a mystery. I’ve finished the second draft, and I’d love to have some beta readers to cast their eye over it and send some feedback so I can make the book as good as it can be.

If you’re interested, please visit the Google form and fill in your details. I’ll send the book out early next week, probably Monday, and I’d like to receive feedback within a couple of weeks. Sending feedback isn’t too onerous, I hope. It’s very useful to know which parts of the book you enjoyed as well as any parts that dragged or were confusing. It’s also great to hear about plot holes and inconsistencies and anything that doesn’t ring true.

I’ll close the form when I have a reasonable number of requests, so if you don't have time to read the book and send me feedback, please leave this opportunity for others.

Please find the form at: https://forms.gle/QZkrCJcEx8TXZvLU8