Strange thing, memory.
I can remember every detail of an incident that happened 30 years ago, but can I recall where I put my car keys...
Ah, they're in the fridge, which means the missing sausages could be on my keyring.
Thankfully, they're not.
In such states of confusion, which are happening with alarming regularity, my wife advises me to: “Retrace your steps.”
Once I retraced them all the way back to a 1970 scout camp in Borth. I was looking for the cat's worming tablet. Even worse, people know me, but the million brain cells that housed my recollections of them died many years ago.
Prompted by my startled expression, they explain: “You remember – I'm your mother.”
After an exceptionally hearty hello, one said: “You remember – Greg Robinson. I was in your maths class. Did you ever find my slide rule?”
Who is Greg Robinson? What's a slide rule? What's a maths class?
I've now bought a CD which provides mental exercise routines. Relaxation is the key, apparently. “Imagine you're on a beach,” purred the voice. “You're lying on the hot sand, the gentle sounds of the sea are in the distance...”
I shot suddenly upright and began rooting frantically through draws.
“What's wrong - you're supposed to relax?” demanded Julie.
“I will,” I shouted, “when I remember where I put those bloody swimming trunks.”
Today is marathon day. Months of hard training has seen my wrinkly, soft body with grey chest hairs transformed into a wrinkly hard body with grey chest hairs.
There's not a lot of difference, really – except more bits of me stop at the same time I do.
The 26 mile race through grim Black Country streets is going to be tough, but I'll be spurred on by the thought my efforts will bring in a shedload of charity cash for the Shropshire Crippled Gerbil Trust.
Our trendy vicar reckons I should be running to swell the church roof fund, but I like the one they've got – especially the pointy bit at the end.
Next time you spot a gerbil in splints, just remember my sweat and blood probably paid for the medical appliances.
Last year, I was pipped to the post by a man with a false emu strapped to his waist and a bloke in a diving suit, who was remarkably sprightly despite his lead boots...
A troop of fake nuns also finished 20 minutes ahead, despite stopping half-way to give me the last rites.
My mates think I could win it this year – if I was Ethiopian and five stone lighter.
In a show of support, drinkers at The Drum and Monkey have held a sweepstake. “I think I've got the winner,” beamed Colin after lifting his folded piece of paper from the hat. “Two hours, 35 minutes.” I told him I'd never finish the course in under four-and-a-half-hours. “We're not betting on when you finish,” corrected the drinker.
“We're betting on when you collapse.”
Can't believe I was disqualifed from the cake making section of this year's allotment association annual show on the lame grounds my Arctic Roll was a 'ringer'.
A ringer for what? An Antarctic Roll, perchance?
“The thing is,” shuffled the clearly embarrassed association chairman, “a couple of the ladies think you didn't make it.”
“That's one hell of an accusation,” I bristled. “I hope they've got evidence to back up that slanderous remark.” “They have,” whispered the allotments head, “you left the packet on the table.”
For the record, I never said I made the thing. Should it have scooped top prize – a trolley dash at a retail outlet of the association's choice (last year they chose a memorial headstone showroom), I fully intended to bestow all the credit on Findus.
This year, Mrs Frobisher took the trophy for her upside-down cake. Mrs Frobisher's upside-down cake has taken first place since 1968, with the string of successes only broken briefly in 1982 when her rightway-round cake was judged best in class. I think it was the same sweet from a different perspective.
Mrs Frobisher's upside-down cake is now green and mouldy.
“Golly,” trilled the delighted OAP, grasping the silverware. “I wonder when someone will beat me?”
“When you're dead, probably,” I told her, still pricked by being turfed out of the prestigious event.
Patricia Hayes-Smythe's Victorian sponge would've won this year, but one of the judges was allergic to Victorians.
On the gardening side, the decision to introduce a “best bonsai tree” category sparked controversy. The winning entry was 3ft 6ins tall.
“It's supposed to be miniature,” I protested. “It is to the bloke who grew it,” explained the association head. “He's 7ft 6ins.”
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