The Woo of the Jackanape Corn Loon

Post CCXX

Here’s the story of age, forgetfulness, and age.

My brother always said that he’ll know when he’s old when he starts wearing beige trousers. I was reminded of this tidbit of information this week when I noticed that I had started to tuck my shirt into my trousers, even when I’m at home. And that’s the thing with ageing – it creeps up on you. It’s subconscious. Shirt not tucked in is a young man’s game. But I stopped doing that and I didn’t even notice. I’ve stopped splashing in puddles as well – I was definitely doing that last year. And just now, I got out of the shower and banged my shin on the bathtub. I couldn’t get my leg over. It’s too damn high! I’m only 25. Have I already said goodbye to my fresh and hunky youth? What am I gonna be like when I’m 30? I’ll be like that old guy from Up, that’s what, sonny…

I’m now looking for other signs of ageing. Memory. My memory is on the blink. I’m now looking for other signs for ageing. Hang on, did I say that already? There are so many things I’ve forgot to do this week, and all this has come at a bad time. The folks are away. I bet I’ll forget the dinner is on and I’ll finally succeed at accidentally burning the house down.

I’ve turned to brain training to perk up me old noggin. You know it’s working when you start to get a headache. They’re like video games. There’s one game where I have to race a penguin across a maze, but the maze keeps shifting. And for some reason, I’m a giant hamster. The thing is, if Mr. Hamster (I’m not very good at coming up with names) loses, he starts crying. Where’s the positive reinforcement? ‘Better luck next time, old chum.’ That would be sure dandy, but no, I have some jackanape telling me to ho-hum it down to the toffee factory to ease my woes.

You have another one where you’re in a tank of water and these bubbles with sums in them start falling from the sky. You have to answer them before they hit the water or BOOM! The water rises. And keeps rising. Until you drown. It’s like being back at school when we were playing dodgeball. I quickly realised that I was the only person being hit, so I gave up and just took it. It wasn’t so much ‘dodgeball’, more ‘let’s see how many balls we can throw at Ally before he starts crying.’ At least I wasn’t drowned. Although if we had a pool…

I’m not very good at the mathematics game, to be honest. I knew I wasn’t when I got 27 minus three wrong.

It’s not working. I’ve been at it for four days and I expected to be a super genius by now. If anything, brain training is making me stupider. I’d learn more about arithmetic from a headless chicken. My dad often tells me that I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.

Trust me, if you’re a kid in school and you’re reading this, you don’t need maths. Just use a calculator. I do and I’m doing fine. I can’t add, I can’t subtract, I can’t divide, I don’t know my multiplication tables – but you know what, I’m doing smashingly well. I mean, sure, I got 27 minus three wrong, but that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Much.

And yes, the day may come when all the electronic doohickeys go doolally, resulting in humankind having to revert to a simpler, more ‘Amish’ lifestyle, but I don’t think maths would be on anyone’s mind. I wouldn’t be a mathematician in that new world. I’d be the guy who makes money off corn whispering, where, for a small fee, I charge gullible idiots to let me talk to their crops to make them grow better. We have horse whispering, so it’s my fervent hope that the farmers will assume it isn’t much of a leap to corn…

“Dang it, Martha! I’ve been had by that doggone corn loon!”

Everything is failing, really. My hearing is shot and my bones creak and crack with every move. Sometimes, I have to stop halfway up the stairs to catch my breath. In fact, I’d quite like one of those chair seat lift thingamajigs. Better yet, buy a bungalow. Or hire a sexy maid. Well, she has to be a bit dashing. I’d hope to woo her. You know, with my amazing variety of woo.

I’ve been having a lot of daytime naps, too. I love a good nap. I say ‘nap’. I actually drift off occasionally and don’t wake up for a few hours. It’s not a deliberate nap, it’s one of the ones where you can’t keep your eyes open and you drift off. I could drink some caffeine rich coffee, but I’m from Yorkshire. We don’t drink coffee. You’d be shot for that, here.

Every Yorkie has a cupboard full of Yorkshire Tea. Mmm, what a brew…

I had a nightmare the other day, too, trying to get up off the bathroom floor. Mother had cut my hair shorter at the back (I have long hair brushed over the top – it was halfway down my back). She then left me to clean up all the hair on the floor. I had to pick it up by hand. That took a while and I couldn’t get up after I finished. It was late so I contemplated going to sleep on the bathroom floor and attempt to get up again in the morning. I’m still hunched over now. All I need is a cardigan, a flat cap and a walking cane and I’m set for a life of annual holidays to Blackpool. Where I’ll be able to yell at the young people for all their various foibles.

“Pull up your pants! Put some more clothes on! Why are you wearing a vest three sizes too small, young lady? You’ll catch the sniffles!”

Yes, my brain is seemingly ageing faster than the rest of me. Maybe this is what happens when one doesn’t have any friends. You have no modern pop culture reference. I don’t know, for example, who this rapping fella is who wants to run for President in 2020. I’ve never heard of him or any of his contemporary cronies, but just looking at him, he seems a bit of a twonk. But he could be some wonderful humanitarian, I just don’t know. Maybe I’ve arrived at the point when I’m so out of touch with the 21st century that my body has started to age faster. If you immerse yourself in the culture of 1920, you’ll start to look, act, behave and talk like someone from 1920. Maybe that’s what’s happening to me. Or maybe I am just getting older. I don’t know.

I guess what I’m trying to say is… oh, damn, I forgot my point.

Ah, well.

See you next week. Unless I’ve burnt the house down by then.

I remember that because I can smell smoke…

OH, SHIT!

French writer, intellectual, existentialist philosopher, political activist, feminist and social theorist, Simone de Beauvoir (1908-1986), once said: “I am incapable of conceiving infinity, and yet I do not accept finity. I want this adventure that is the context of my life to go on without end.”

Peace Out :|:


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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
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