If it wasn’t screwed on…

I think it would be fair to say that I’m not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer a lot of the time. In fact, sometimes I can be downright forgetful.

Take last week, for instance. On Monday, Terry and I went to visit his mum, taking Rubin with us, as usual. When it was time to leave, we both got up, walked to the door and opened it. It was only as Terry, who was in the lead, stepped out of said door, that his mum called out to ask if we were intending to take our dog home with us at all, or were we just planning to leave him there?

(Damn, another plan thwarted.)

We went back for Rubin, of course, but my jacket was not so lucky: Terry’s mum called us on Tuesday to let me know it was still hanging in her kitchen, where I’d left it, so basically I’d just got up and walked out of the house when it was time to go, leaving ALL of my possessions behind me. This is something I haven’t done since I was a kid, when the school bell would ring and I would just get up and leave. Twenty minutes later I’d be back to collect my bag, coat and other sundry items… Actually, no, that’s a lie: I HAVE done it since then. When I was a journalist, I used to occasssionally drive to work, and only when I was getting out the car would I realise I’d left my handbag (complete with EVERYTHING I’d need for the day) and coat at home. I’d also regularly leave my headlights switched on, thus ensuring I’d leave work at night to find my car battery was completely dead. Fun! (The car I have now has an alarm that goes off if I try to get out of it when the headlights are still on. I wouldn’t have bought it without that feature.)

Then, on Thursday? I decided to go to the library, to return the books I’ve now renewed online three times because I didn’t have time to actually GO to the library. (Or, indeed, to read the books, which was annoying, because I don’t feel like myself if I’m not reading a book at all times.*) I was halfway there before I realised that, whoops, I hadn’t actually bothered to bring the books with me. THEY were sitting on the table in the living room. Not that it mattered: I mean, I’d have had to turn back anyway, on account of how my rearview mirror chose that moment to leap dramatically off the windscreen, landing in my lap, and adding a frisson of “Oh my God, I hope the police don’t see this!” excitement to my return journey as I attempted the drive home while holding it up in front of me, like a hand mirror.

I did manage to get to the library eventually, but I’m sure the teenagers at the bus-stop, which I passed six times in the space of 20 minutes, probably thought I was a spy, hired to keep watch on them. A really half-assed spy, obviously, because as I passed them for the final time – yes! – my mirror fell off again.


On Friday, the washing machine died. Boom! Goodbye, money! Hello, shiny new washing machine that we didn’t really want, but will have to buy anyway! (This didn’t actually have anything to do with me being forgetful, of course, but even so, people, EVEN SO. Can you imagine a less satisfying major purchase than a freaking WASHING MACHINE?)

I’m not even going to mention the few hours Terry spent searching the house for my car keys (he’d had them last, so he was on “searching” duty), which were eventually tracked down to the interior of HIS car.

Oops, I just did. Sorry, Terry.


* I did eventually read the books, by the way. It just took me much, much longer than usual…