There's no doubt that getting older sucks. As the days go by not a single activity, thought or response improves. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a miserable old git bleakly staring into a half empty glass, just a realist.
Anybody that tells you that life begins at forty is lying. In fact you may hang on grimly for five years or so, witness the perseverence of George Foreman or Sam Torrence, but after that the inevitable slide commences.
The most frustrating element of ageing is the way that it leaves one open to ridicule. Some of us are fortunate enough to be born with excellent memories which during our early years give great pleasure in their unerring ability to recall complicated and diverse facts at will. Not only to answer at will but also with no delay. Question asked, answer given, boom boom. It is this God given facility that fades fastest even before the coming of the snows to the head or even worse the blight of baldness.
As an aside, can anyone tell me why the human male is smitten with hormonal change in middle life which depilates hair from the head, leaving it vulnerable to any chill breeze let alone wind, and grows hair vigorously in the most unlkely and useless places, ears for example?
Back to the memory banks. Now where was I?
The openings for ridicule come in various ways. Everyone knows the reverse whoops, when one finds oneself doing exactly the opposite to what one intended. For instance throwing one's wallet in the trash can and putting the rubbish in one's pocket.
But more sinister and confusing is the decline in short term memory, this leads to countless journeys up and down stairs in the morning and still ends in the arrival at work without the vital papers.
In our house it produces an annual irritant for Mrs Fox as I vainly try to remember which of many 'safe'places I have left the car documents in as the time for renewing the tax disc or insurance draws nigh.
But the most ridiculous of all is when an apparently concious action creates a cock up. On Saturday night Eric was interferred with. Not seriously you understand just enough to cause aggro to him and to me. I had been helped when unloading my golf kit by Mrs Fox's brother, the Doctor from Dubbo, and when we got inside I remembered that Eric was unlocked. As we live in an area on the edge of civilisation this was a situation that needed to be remedied fast.
Showing a shimmer of unselfishness, I offered to take Mrs Fox's letters to the post. On my way I locked Eric.
On the Sunday morn I entered Eric to discover the glove box open. A massive theft had occured. My driving glasses, in my possession for a mere 24 hours after months of testing and retesting at the opticians, were missing. Also gone was a plastic case for some Ray Bans and the metal thingy that measures tyre pressures.
What I had done, deliberately, was unlock Eric, not the reverse. Because, during the unloading with the Doctor from Dubbo, I had subconciously locked the car. Eric just clicks, he doesn't have any little buttons that show you when he's secure. What I should have done later of course was to lift the handle but I was so confident that I was locking the car that I didn't.
The thief tossed the tyre pressure gauge into a nearby bush so I recovered that, but presumeably set off to try and sell the glasses and the case.
If any drug dealer in the Shepherds Bush area gets offered a pair of glasses could he let me know? Alternatively if someone walks into you wearing specs, they're mine.
If only I could plug in more RAM I'd be an happy man.