Today, I briefly forgot my own birthdate.
I was arranging a meeting
with a friend, trying to find a time that was good for both of us. We threw a few options back and forth as we flicked through our diaries, nearly reaching a
stalemate. In a last-ditch attempt to resolve the issue, she suggested the
fourteenth of May. It was only on checking my phone’s calendar that I realised
it was of significance.
THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE
END.
At least it had come up out of
context. Its personal import wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. It’s still a concern;
if there’s one 365th of the average Earth’s orbit I’d expect to be
ingrained on my memory it’s this. I shouldn’t need a device to remind me.
Isn’t this the sort of thing you’re meant
to look out for? I hope it’s not a sign of decline. It’s more likely a result
of tiredness: my brain has been fried by writing. Whatever the reason, I may invest in a Dymo Labeller. I’ll also buy a copy of this:
There’s nothing wrong with the odd aide-mémoire about the house.