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Forgetful? Me?

I say “I’m getting senile”
when I can’t remember stuff,
like where I left my cup of tea,
or names, or... all that guff.

You know I’m only joking –
I’m really not that old.
I like to get in first before
some rotter gets too bold

and says it like they mean it –
I can’t be having that.
There’s nothing wrong with me at all.
Now, did I feed the cat?

He’s sitting by his bowl and staring
hard with gimlet eyes.
I’m sure I fed him, though. I did!
You know how cats tell lies.

It’s just the unimportant things
that go. Am I a bore?
Your smile is fixed. I wonder,
have I told you this before?

I bet I’m not the only one
who drives off down the road
and has to stop and check my bag’s
behind me, safely stowed.

It’s just because my mind is on
a higher plane. I’ve got
the answers to the mysteries of...
can’t remember what.

But on the whole it’s not a ma-
jor deal for me. Don’t frown.
I get through life quite happily –
because I write things down.

There’s just one thing that bothers me.
My mother’s eighty-three.
She says her memory’s going, but...
she’s not as bad as me!

Jane Dards ...

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