Losing it!

According to The Wall Street Journal, the average person misplaces up to nine items a day.  And one-third of respondents in a poll said they spend an average of 15 minutes each day searching for items such as mobiles, keys and paperwork.  I beg to differ.  I think it's more like 60 minutes, maybe 120.  Well, it certainly is in our house.  For want of rolling out a familiar cliche, if I had a pound for every minute one of us has spent searching for something, I'd have around £2100.  And that's just September!

Apparently, our genes are at least partially to blame, experts say. Stress, fatigue and multitasking can exacerbate our propensity to make such errors. Such lapses can also be linked to more serious conditions like depression and attention-deficit hyperactivity disorders.  More often than not, at No 1,  it has something to do with alcohol and the resulting fuggy, blurry, morning after which has the ability to wipe one's memory.  I'm not referring to me, of course.  It never gets that bad, mainly because my capacity for alcohol now doesn't extend beyond a small Tia Maria and coke!  Mr H, though, has kindly taken over my capacity.  In fact he's embraced it with great gusto and enthusiasm.

So last weekend was a perfect example of this genetic phenomenon.  I had tickets to the festival for the over 50's, (or Radio 2 in the Park as it's more commonly known).  We got there eventually but only after a monumental hunt for Mr H's wallet.   Clearly it wasn't in it's usual place - his pocket or bedside table.  Neither was it in it's unusual places - down the side of sofa, in the kitchen or in the car.  So then mild panic set in and the task of trying to remember where the friggin hell it was when you're horribly hungover began.  Normally, the act of physically and mentally retracing your steps when looking for lost objects can work. "The more you can make your brain act like the way it was when you lay down that original memory trace," the more successful you will be", says Kenneth Norman, a psychology professor at Princeton University.  But trying to do that when you can't remember your own name is bloody impossible.

Finally, we came to the conclusion that it had probably been left on the counter of the Happy Cockroach, the Thai takeaway where, due to a lack of inspiration, we ended up getting our evening meal.  And as they didn't open til 5pm, it looks like our elderly rock fest would be somewhat hampered by lack of funds.  Pity I didn't tell him to look in his shoe.  Because that's where the bloody thing was!  I mean, who on earth puts their wallet in their shoes!  Mr H does.  Of course.  He remembers.  He put it there for safekeeping.  Who on earth thinks, "I know,  I won't leave it in my jeans or put it on the bedside cabinet as I usually do.  I'll put it in my shoe for safekeeping!  Where I'll never look.  Until I need to put them on.  And then I won't be able to get them on because they'll be something in it.  Oh. My wallet"!

This, to be fair, isn't unusual.  It's just another in a long list, which has yet to be topped by finding a lost mobile phone in a bag with the bread rolls in the freezer compartment of the fridge.  However, the older we get, the more things we need and therefore there's more things to remember not to lose.  Glasses - 2 pairs each plus spares, tablets - which has resulted in a whole new shelf creation housing a plethora of medication required to keep us functioning, various limb supports, spare keys, spare spare keys.  I'm seriously thinking of never planning to book up to go anywhere ever again.  There's so many things to remember, that by the time we've applied/found everything, it's hardly worth leaving the house.  At least then I can have a couple of large Amarettos and not worry about losing the kids, the car or forgotten to take something to stop something else dropping off.  And Mr H can down a few bottles of Marston's Grumpy Old Fucker, safe in the knowledge that it doesn't matter if we've lost something because we're not going anywhere anyway.

I just hope that the we don't acquire any thing else to remember not to lose.  I'm running out of places to look.  And I'm running out of shelves to put things.  At a push, I suppose I could always put whatever it is on the shoe rack.

Not that there's any shoes on it.

They're in the dishwasher.

Of course.

Losing it!

According to The Wall Street Journal, the average person misplaces up to nine items a day.  And one-third of respondents in a poll said they spend an average of 15 minutes each day searching for items such as mobiles, keys and paperwork.  I beg to differ.  I think it's more like 60 minutes, maybe 120.  Well, it certainly is in our house.  For want of rolling out a familiar cliche, if I had a pound for every minute one of us has spent searching for something, I'd have around £2100.  And that's just September!

Apparently, our genes are at least partially to blame, experts say. Stress, fatigue and multitasking can exacerbate our propensity to make such errors. Such lapses can also be linked to more serious conditions like depression and attention-deficit hyperactivity disorders.  More often than not, at No 1,  it has something to do with alcohol and the resulting fuggy, blurry, morning after which has the ability to wipe one's memory.  I'm not referring to me, of course.  It never gets that bad, mainly because my capacity for alcohol now doesn't extend beyond a small Tia Maria and coke!  Mr H, though, has kindly taken over my capacity.  In fact he's embraced it with great gusto and enthusiasm.

So last weekend was a perfect example of this genetic phenomenon.  I had tickets to the festival for the over 50's, (or Radio 2 in the Park as it's more commonly known).  We got there eventually but only after a monumental hunt for Mr H's wallet.   Clearly it wasn't in it's usual place - his pocket or bedside table.  Neither was it in it's unusual places - down the side of sofa, in the kitchen or in the car.  So then mild panic set in and the task of trying to remember where the friggin hell it was when you're horribly hungover began.  Normally, the act of physically and mentally retracing your steps when looking for lost objects can work. "The more you can make your brain act like the way it was when you lay down that original memory trace," the more successful you will be", says Kenneth Norman, a psychology professor at Princeton University.  But trying to do that when you can't remember your own name is bloody impossible.

Finally, we came to the conclusion that it had probably been left on the counter of the Happy Cockroach, the Thai takeaway where, due to a lack of inspiration, we ended up getting our evening meal.  And as they didn't open til 5pm, it looks like our elderly rock fest would be somewhat hampered by lack of funds.  Pity I didn't tell him to look in his shoe.  Because that's where the bloody thing was!  I mean, who on earth puts their wallet in their shoes!  Mr H does.  Of course.  He remembers.  He put it there for safekeeping.  Who on earth thinks, "I know,  I won't leave it in my jeans or put it on the bedside cabinet as I usually do.  I'll put it in my shoe for safekeeping!  Where I'll never look.  Until I need to put them on.  And then I won't be able to get them on because they'll be something in it.  Oh. My wallet"!

This, to be fair, isn't unusual.  It's just another in a long list, which has yet to be topped by finding a lost mobile phone in a bag with the bread rolls in the freezer compartment of the fridge.  However, the older we get, the more things we need and therefore there's more things to remember not to lose.  Glasses - 2 pairs each plus spares, tablets - which has resulted in a whole new shelf creation housing a plethora of medication required to keep us functioning, various limb supports, spare keys, spare spare keys.  I'm seriously thinking of never planning to book up to go anywhere ever again.  There's so many things to remember, that by the time we've applied/found everything, it's hardly worth leaving the house.  At least then I can have a couple of large Amarettos and not worry about losing the kids, the car or forgotten to take something to stop something else dropping off.  And Mr H can down a few bottles of Marston's Grumpy Old Fucker, safe in the knowledge that it doesn't matter if we've lost something because we're not going anywhere anyway.

I just hope that the we don't acquire any thing else to remember not to lose.  I'm running out of places to look.  And I'm running out of shelves to put things.  At a push, I suppose I could always put whatever it is on the shoe rack.

Not that there's any shoes on it.

They're in the dishwasher.

Of course.

Getting On.

"I SAID HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED VARIFOCALS, MRS H??" The nice lady in Specsavers said to me for the third time, clearly becoming irritated.  She glanced up at the poster behind her. "AND DID YOU KNOW WE ALSO DO HEARING TESTS??"  I didn't know, actually.  I'd been staring blankly at her for several minutes as she was blathering on and I could have sworn she said "My goodness, you look just like Angelina Jolie", or "I can't believe you're over 40".  But obviously she didn't.  And varifocals?  Aren't they for the over 80's?  That's just one of those words I tend to associate with the elderly, along with dentures, boiled sweets and surgical stockings.  Actually my dad swears by them (the varifocals, not the stockings).  But then again, my Dad is 78. And I'm nowhere near that.  No.  Most defnitely nowhere near it at all.

She finally convinced me to give them a go.  In fact, she also offered me a free pair and a contact lens trial.  I was totally and optically overwhelmed.  I'm sure she was starting to feel sorry for me. I went in there thinking I was getting a new pair of reading glasses, then suddenly I'm classed as elderly, practically blind and hard of hearing. Ah what the hell.  I can move with the times.  I'm up for the challenge of radical eyewear.  I've never fancied poking myself in the eyes on a daily basis and if I had a pound for every time I'd lost my reading/distance/spare/sunglasses, I'd have approximately £59.  They've taken getting used to I can tell you.  I was like a nodding dog for weeks.  People thought I was constantly agreeing with them. Which invariably I wasn't.  I had a stiff neck too.  But I'm getting used to them.  In fact they look quite stylish.  And now I only have one pair to lose instead of 4.  Which is one less thing to worry about when you can't hear the juggernaut!

Not Angelina Jolie!

They also came in handy when I recently had to go and see the specialist about my hip.  It had been niggling ever since I'd danced like a large orange twat at my 80's themed birthday party dressed as a shit Madonna (the over-rated ageing singer, not Jesus' mother - that would have been a totally different night altogether!).  I was also wearing inappropriate footwear for my age but gargantuan amounts of Jagermeisters seemed to numb the pain. The next day I couldn't walk. I'd partied like it was 1983 and now I was walking like I was 83! Sparing you the long boring bit of copious visits to the GP, I eventually got a referral to a big knob, got x-rayed and there I am, suddenly staring at my misshapen pelvis, from a distance, clear as anything.  I could have sworn he said "You've got fantastic legs".  What he actually said was "You've got osteoarthritis.  You need a hip replacement. I reckon you've got about two years".  Crikey.  I really need that hearing test.

Large orange twat

I was too speechless to ask whether 2 years was how long I had left til the replacement or whether he'd noticed that I was wearing varifocals, decided I must be at least 80 and thought I might as well just be put down. I hope not.  I've just spent a small fortune on new fricking glasses!  But maybe it's not such a bad thing.  Maybe I can choose my new hip.  Maybe I can ask for a thinner one. Like Angelina Jolie's?  

Barley sugar, anyone?