OK, so if you needed more evidence that I am getting old, then there it is. I thought I was telling you about a new memory with my
Knickerbocker Glory story yesterday. But apparently
I've told you about it before. I don't recall writing about it previously, but it is four years ago and I have written an awful lot of this shit in the interim. I think this is the first time I have repeated myself, but who knows? Ah well, apologies for being a boring old man, going on and on about Knickerbocker Glories, but as the person who pointed it out in the guestbook acknowledged that the Knickerbocker Glory is obviously my version of Proust's Madeleine biscuits. But I know that I have
mentioned them before. And I wouldn't want to bore you.
I was doing the Guardian quick crossword over coffee this afternoon. It's the kind of activity that is meant to keep an old brain active and ward off dementia. Regular readers, who I know know all this shit off by heart, will know
that it doesn't necessarily work. But it is good to concentrate on something other than work and as often as not it will trigger some idea or idle thought or other. Or at least teach me a new word which I can use in writing. And if I am in a sharper mood than I was with the whole bag of lamb/lamb egg debacle, I can usually get most of it done. Especially if I come back for a second sweep at it later. Yesterday's crossword gave me a possible title for my book (the working title - The Milky Bar Kidult - might just be too confusing), "Past It". It might not make it, but I don't think it would have sprung to mind otherwise.
Today's puzzle got me thinking too. The clue, "Mouth to mouth resuscitation (4,2,4)" actually took me a couple of minutes to get, but once I had an "s" in the first word, it was like, "well d'uh". But it got me thinking about how lovely that phrase is and how much lovelier than the more official, mouth to mouth resuscitation, which is just horrible. "Kiss of Life" is a beautiful and poetic name for the practice. I wondered who had coined this much more satisfying name for the procedure and wished it had been me. Because it's worthy of Shakespeare. To think of this desperate and not entirely pleasant task as a kiss and one that somehow magically infuses life is rather wonderful and not entirely inaccurate. I think all we can hope to do in our lives is discover poetry in this mundane and dirty and painful existent. And to have your poetry enter the vernacular and become accepted by everyone is all we can hope for. Strive for finding the poetry in life. And well done to whoever came up with the tiny poem that is "kiss of life". I like it very much.
My mind was now in a more relaxed and more open state and I had more ideas for my new script in the next 30 minutes than I have managed in the last month and a half. Thanks Guardian crossword. You rock! Keep the poetry coming.
Afterwards I went to the gym and am happy to report that I seem to be getting back to a rather fitter state than I've been in for a few weeks. I enjoyed my hour of exercise very much. Except that as I started on the running machine the little paranoid voice that had warned me about
my George Forman grill was up to his old tricks. Perhaps buoyed by the fact that for once he had been vindicated, he decided to start digging his evil tendrils into my psyche and suggested that I had failed to put my lock on my locker. I understood now, the power of giving me one actually true concern, because now it made me uneasy about even the most outlandish suggestion. The lock key was in my pocket and I just knew I would never really be so stupid as to not put the lock in the requisite hole, and yet the George Forman Affair (as the film about the incident will undoubtedly be called) was making me question my sanity. I had needed the loo when I was locking up and had been distracted by the fact that the girl at the reception had neglected to give me my little towel. So maybe I had just taken the key out of my lock and left my door agape.
But I refused to seriously entertain the possibility. Even though the voice kept saying, "I was right about the grill - someone could be helping themselves to your wallet right now." But my paranoid voice is just lazy and hates exercising and wanted me to stop so it could take it easy. So I paid no heed
And then sixty minutes later, I went downstairs glowing with health and, let's not lie, a lot of sweat and what do you think?
My locker was locked properly.
Take that paranoid voice. One George Forman grill does not a reputation save. I am not yet so do-lally that I would forget to lock my locker. I haven't lost it.
Now did I ever tell you about the time I had a Knickerbocker Glory?
If you're interested in buying a signed Headmaster's Son programme, there
here on ebay, all money goes to Age Concern. Happy bidding!
