Much too soon...

There comes a time in every middle-aged lady's life, when realisation hits you square in the face with the force of a wet haddockin a Gale Force 10.  Here's what happened...

'I'm here for my 2.30 appointment with my dentist, Mr A', I said.  'I'm a bit early, but ever so happy to sit quietly for a few minutes'.

Receptionist looks at screen.  Receptionist looks at me.

'That's odd', she says.  'It's Mr A's day off today'.

I look at her.  Realise that she will brook no further argument.

'It's tomorrow, isn't it?  My appointment. It's tomorrow'.

Receptionist nods knowingly.

'Ah well', I say cheerily, 'better to turn up twice than not at all'

Shuffle backwards to door, and mourn fading memory over a coffee and a slice of cake...

So you see, my memory is on the blink.  I rely on my smartphone (talk about rubbing it in) and faithfully put every single thing into it, but for some reason, I have stopped looking at it each day to see what the hell is planned.  So what I need is an alarm to remind me to look at my calendar each day so that I can remember to turn up on THE RIGHT BLOODY DAY.

I suppose what hacked me off most was that I had been home and cleaned my teeth, depriving myself of any lunch until after the work was done.  Hence the cake.  So it was in a bit of a giddy pickle that I eventually walked back in the house yesterday afternoon. Sons number one and two are still here, lazing around the house like two giant slugs.To avoid looking at the carnage which seems to follow them around, I squirrelled myself away in my office and spent a most pleasant couple of hours clearing out four years of filing.  

And then son number two decided to do some shredding...

The shredder is the husband's pride and joy, and you and I, and all other sensible adults, know that you can only put one piece of A4 paper in at a time if you want to avoid jamming it.  Son number two did not know this, and quite happily pushed a wadge of thirty five bank statements into the metal teeth.  

An hour and a half it took me to unjam the bloody thing, using my best tweezers and a pair of pliers, and by the time shredding was resumed, I'd had enough for the day, and wanted to crawl inside a bottle of Malbec.

Son number one came to the rescue.  'Want me to cook dinner?'

It's quite possibly the nicest thing he's ever said...