Losing Things

I’m not a great loser of things – the will to live possibly, during an interminably long plane journey – but items, other than chocolate, held in my care are generally secure.  I have particular places to put things and I always put them there.  Those ‘things’, being inanimate, remain there – unless my wife or grandchildren are involved – until I pick them up.  Of course, there is a price to pay.  I am hyper-aware of everything I should have about my person at all times.  Whatever I have to put down, and wherever I have to put it, imprints on my brain like a fresh-out-of-the-oven treacle tart on my tongue.  Everything remains unmoved, everything and its whereabouts remains logged until I decide to pick it up, or until I sleep when, like all men of my age, my memory undergoes some kind of malevolent deep-clean, whereafter I forget not only where I left things, but that I actually ever had them.  Some nerdy little blighter sneaks into my head with a board eraser overnight and rubs everything off the blackboard:
“Where did you leave the car keys?”
“Did I have them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I will have put them where I always put them.”
“Which is…?”
“On the table near the door.”
“Which table?  We haven’t had a table near the door for years.”
“Oh dear…”
If I never slept, I’d never lose a thing… except, perhaps, for sunglasses.

Sunglasses are top of my ‘go to’ list of things to lose.  Wherever I go, I take at least two pairs in the certain knowledge that I will come back with only one – and those will not be my ‘favourites’.  I was told that I have to wear sunglasses to protect my eyes, but unless I am in bright sunshine, they render me virtually blind.  Consequently I am always taking them off and leaving them somewhere…

My grandson can lose anything, anywhere.  Socks, pants, books, bags… whatever he has taken, he will come home without it.  In the winter, his ability to misplace hats, gloves, scarves and coats is unequalled in the Western World.  The uncomprehending look on his face when he is asked, ‘Where were you when you last had it?” has to be seen to be believed.  Nor is it that he doesn’t understand the value of things – he knows that coats do not grow on trees and his contrition is real.  He has the disturbing habit of completely accepting his own culpability and has a simple answer to the problem: “I lost the coat, so I’ll just be cold.”  A nine year old does not understand that adult sensibilities cannot accept that solution, however well-intentioned – especially with the parents of multi-tog’d classmates looking on from the school gates.  As a grown-up you must suck it up, buy a new one and try to devise a method of keeping it on his back that does not involve a hammer and nails. 

His mum, I need no reminding, was just the same: if it was lose-able, she would lose it; if it was breakable, she would break it, and if it was neither, she would trip over it and injure herself.  Her distress was always genuine and I spent most of her childhood regretting the fact that I even mentioned it.

These days, most of what happens in my life receives some kind of a mention on these pages, but I am not a reporter and the stories from my life are not nearly interesting enough to bear unadorned recollection (as Spike Milligan said of his wartime memoirs, I jazz them up a bit).  Most of what happens to me these days is decidedly on the humdrum side of mundane.  Given time I can, generally, laugh about it all and sometimes, when I’m in the mood, I can turn it into some kind of a tale.  Providing I don’t lose my thread…

I’m losing things
That’s what old-fashioned love brings
Lost the key to the house
The feeling in my mouth
I’m losing things… Losing Things – The Beautiful South (Rotheray/Heaton)