It can happen to anyone, often at the worst possible time.
Brain-fade – fin yer heidie gings one wye and yer moo the ither. US presidential candidate Joe Biden suffered an unfortunate attack this week, referring to Trump as “George” (Who he? Bush?) until his wife mouthed his rival’s surname. Let’s face it, the guyo is 77. How many of us septuagenarians don’t get oor cerebral knickers in a twist every now and then.
But the incident shines an uncomfortable spotlight on the pickle Americans have got theirsellies into.
Democrats desperate to get rid of The Donald, who compared himself to Abraham Lincoln during the last debate, should have come up with a Kennedy-type candidate, oozing verve and charisma. Instead, they’ve had to settle for an al’ mannie who looks and occasionally acts like that.
Mony’s the time I’ve related this most extreme brain-fade I’ve come across. In the early 70s, when me and EE photographer Bob bowled up to Kincorth for a golden-wedding story. The anniversary mannie opened the door to say, sorry, his wife was at the hairdresser.
Bob would come back later for the pic, I’d get the details now. Names, ages, kids, etc. No problem… except with the question: “What’s your wife’s name?” Long silence, then: “It’s on the tip o’ my tongue.”
He even urged me to suggest a few wifies’ names and check cards for inscriptions, apologising: “I jist ca’ her ‘mum’.” Awww, soo sweet. On an almost daily basis, I’m in a brain break-wind situation thanks to the fact my bosom pal, quine and grand-toot all have names beginning with C. Torture when I’m telling a story to C about C and/or. I end up Ca-Ci-Co-ing like a ruddy cuckoo.
But they’re all used to my C-ups. Sadly, I’m on my ownio when oot-and-aboot and suddenly meetin’ somebody I know so well, but whose name I can’t excavate from the innards of my hypothalamus. But it’s a siren-screaming emergency if I have to do introductions, like that affa day… Far worse to be hit by a major and black-affrontin’ brain-fade than one of HRH Lizzie’s garden parties in Buck Hoose? Ower-the-snobbie-moon aboot the invite, I was daft-hatted to the nines, hooverin’ up skinny cucumber sandwiches, spikkin proper, when comes a tap on my shooder and: “Fa let you in, Simpson?”
An Aiberdeen business gadgie I’d kint since he was just a snotty-nosed loon in oor beloved Rosemount. Recklessly, I took it upon masellie to do the intros to my hubby. (I’m makkin’ up names here, lest I stir up even mair muddy waters.)
“This is Dod and his wife … (total fog, then inspiration) …Brenda.” From the noxious look on ‘Brenda’s’ phizog, I knew I’d stewed a prune.
Burst in Dod: “It’s Sarah!” Cheers, Mo. Deep joy dredging up his ex-wife’s name. But at least I’m not a wannabe president of the US.
Christmas is already different this year
At the end of October, I’m normally well ahead with my Christmas planning. Cards bought, later discovering I’ve dozens left over from last year in the drawer under the bed. Wrapping paper ditto.
If I haven’t already bought all my prezzies, I’ll know what I’m gonna buy. Toots will have ticked just about everything in the Smyths brochure. Kerching. Kerching. By November, my wee plastic card will be jiggin’ aboot every time I take it oot its slot.
But this awful year, all change. I canna be fashed even thinking about prezzies, especially when the hotel/ restaurant/concert deals I thought I was so clever giving last Christmas are still unused and, as yet, unusable.
And oh the irony. Having stopped smoking in the spring lockdown, I now have loadsa dosh to spend on… I canna think fit. With the HMT panto and mony others oot the windae, mums and dads are struggling to find festive treats for their young uns. The ones that are happening are mostly sold out.
Now we’re in suspenders wonderin’ whether oor Nippy Sweetie boss’s hairtie will melt a wee bittie and relax the restrictions for just one day, to allow families to get together on December 25.
I’m nae huddin’ ma breath. If she doesn’t, I suspect I will be, like thousands of others, on my ownio on Christmas Day. Zooming the family and praying everything will be back to normal on Christmas 2021.
Still waiting on hold for the flu jab
Apologies for bangin’ on about the same thing again, but I suspect many others might be in my situation.
An over 65 and, as I write, still waiting for an appointment for my flu jab. Not even a letter saying I’d to be there the day before. All my mates have had it, including those in my medical group, who’d to go to a nearby academy two weeks ago. Now the schools are back, where does that leave me?
I phoned the helpline. Recorded message, then told I was in a queue of 22. Phoned my doc: “You will get the jab. The vaccination programme lasts until March.” Scyooze me!?
Emailed Grampian NHS. Rote reply. They would get back to me. Five days on, still waiting.
This article originally appeared on the Evening Express website. For more information, read about our new combined website.
