Cocktails and Records

Amongst the usual ads for pizza delivery services, cab companies and bargains from Lidl, we received the following flyer through the letter box this evening:

Do you ever have the feeling that everything is going wrong in your life?

Don’t hesitate to call the most acclaimed medium. God gifted and well known for his competence and efficiency. For immediate help in looking for love, family reunions, un-betwitchment, love between man and woman, to make yourself loved by someone, relationships, sexual problems, courtcases, strange illnesses, bad luck, bad spells and black magic. Stop unwanted relationships and bad dreams. Enhance your career prospects and make your business a centre for customer attraction. No matter the problem, the solution is in sight once you consult.

100% guarantee. You will get results in 6 days.

So don’t suffer in silence, call today for an appointment.

Desperate times call for desperate measures I guess.

Last Friday morning, in a hotel room in Greece, I switched on the TV. You can guess what was on – wall to wall stories covering the demise of the King of Pop (TM). One of the many talking heads dragged out for the occasion happened to mention that the great thing about music is how it defines those ’special moments’ that you will never forget and how, of course,  Michael Jackson provided those moments for many people.

Sadly, although I like his music, Michael Jackson has largely failed to supply me with any personal ’special moments’. Happily though, another group created a ’special moment’ for me that very same day.

We had decided to go on a cruise around some of the Ionian islands associated with the Onassis family (as recommended by Planet Mondo). The morning started off bright and sunny, all was picture perfect as we smoothly glided through the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. ‘This is the life’ people said to each other with big, stupid grins on their faces.

Mid-morning though things started to change: the wind picked up, dark clouds started to loom ominously in the distance and the boat began to sway. By the time we were scheduled to leave our final destination, a lunch stop in Nydri, Lefkada, the sky was dark and it had started to spit. We all hurried back to the boat looking nervously upwards.

Back onboard, the cheery staff decided that what we all clearly needed to buck us up was a blast of the world’s real favourite superstars, ABBA. So with astonishingly well co-ordinated timing, someone hit play on the CD player and ‘Dancing Queen’ burst out mid-song with Frida and Agnetha singing ‘having the time of your life’ precisely at the same time that the heavens opened - thunder crashed, lightning cracked, the boat lurched viciously, people clutched their stomachs, children cried, torrential rain poured, everyone got drenched and a boatload of holiday making Brits, Germans and Swedes failed to be amused.

And as we all sat there with towels wrapped around us, shivering as fresh blasts of rain attacked us all the way home, everyone gritted their teeth, glared silently into space and enjoyed the comforting sounds of a careful selection of ABBA’s most inappropriately chirpy numbers. It was a moment.

But other than that, the holiday was great.

We were woken up at 5am this morning by the police banging on the door. Our elderly neighbour, Mrs H., who lives down stairs had been found in a ‘confused state’ wandering the streets. The police officers had somehow figured out where she lived and delivered her home.

Just a few months ago I’d been happily conversing with Mrs H. in the hallway. She was proud of her grandchildren going to university, annoyed with tiresome salesmen trying to flog her satellite TV and wondering whether there was an optimum time to cut the hedge. Although several decibels louder than usual, conversation was normal, lucid and flowing. Things were fine.

Then we noticed that Mrs H. was starting to forget things and beginning to repeat herself. Her daughters noticed too and arranged for a daily visit from a care worker to check that she was alright. Mrs H. confided in us that she hated this. There seemed to be different carer everyday and they always bossed her around – of course she’d remember to take her medicine, she didn’t need to be told what to do. I empathised with her, but told her that it was always good to have another reminder, we all forget things sometimes. Yes, she agreed, sometimes she did forget little things.

Then Mrs H. forgot something big. A few weeks ago I was awoken by the sound of someone trying the key in our door downstairs. I went to investigate. Mrs H. was there, fully dressed, smart with her handbag in the corridor. She was upset, she wanted to go shopping but couldn’t get back into her flat. It was 4am. Her door was open and she had confused her flat, where she has lived for more than 20 years, for ours. I gently tried to explain the problem, escorted her to her bedroom and helped her take off her shoes. Although she trusted me, she didn’t seem to know who I was or what she had been doing.

And now this morning, Mrs H. was again lost, bewildered and confused. I dare say we don’t see much more of her. Like the man next door who we used to share gardening tips and beers with over the back fence – he ‘had a fall’, was taken away and we found all his possessions in a skip out the front of the house – her long life on our suburban street will probably come to an abrupt end.

God, I fear old age.