...not QUITE so strange as yesterday!

I was in a funny mood yesterday – ‘funny’ as in ‘weird’. I put much of the strangeness down to doing a language course straight after a classics one. It’s done strange things to my head. Add to this weird mix a good dose of pre-menopausal memory glitches! I can never remember words these days – but am reliably informed that this is quite, er, something-or-other, for my, um, thingamyjig – which is something at least). To digress slightly, some members of my family would suggest that I’ve always had a crap memory. For example, I’m always having surreal conversations with my mother about places she insisted I’ve visited, places of which I have no recollection.

“Remember that time we went to Barmouth?” or “You HAVE been to Peterborough!” usually results in a blank look from me and desperation from my mum – who clearly has a better memory than I have. I always insist I’ve never been, or can’t remember – and I can think of numerous reasons why I can’t remember. I was probably only two or three at the time. My parents didn’t stand me in the middle of the town and say “This is Peterborough - remember it well, for we shall quiz you about it when you are 49.” But mainly because nothing interesting ever happened.

To make a ridiculous example, if my parents say to me, “You HAVE been to … ” (feel free to insert any English seaside resort because I can’t remember the name of the place I was thinking of now, and it really doesn’t matter where, and it will probably come to me later!*) and I argue that I’ve never been, and if at this point they go on to add, “You know – that place where the sheep exploded.” I would (I hope) be able to say, “Oh yes!” because I do remember things happening – just not place names! (*Skegness)

I mean, I am guessing that my son remembers the time that we were on a beach (somewhere in Wales?) when he was quite small. (Small enough to think that lying in a shallow puddle was ‘swimming’, and old enough to make a few brave exploratory steps down the beach away from us (with four sets of eagle eyes unblinkingly watching him) – when, totally unexpectedly, The Red Arrows flew over and out across the sea. I’m sure it was a brown trouser moment for many people that day. (Possibly explains why he has this irrational hatred of Red Arrows pilots!) I am positive he remembers that moment, but won’t necessarily know where it happened, other than ‘a beach’. And this is the argument I put forward to my mum in one of her exasperated moments when trying to convince me that I’ve been somewhere. Of course, it all falls apart when she goes on to explain that it was only two years ago! (Or as on one 'memorable' occasion - the previous month.)

I can’t remember my point now… Oh yes… language/classics/etc.

I was walking along yesterday and in my head (I’ve not yet taken to talking to myself out loud when I’m outside – it is, however, only a matter of time!) I was criticising someone’s “ironic columns”. I know at this point I did say “Ironic?” out loud, with a sort of questioning/puzzled intonation – much to the surprise of a man washing his car.

Had I actually been looking at what was supposedly columns in a vaguely Ionic style, I could perhaps have been forgiven a slight (vaguely humorous) “slip of the mind.” Except they were, in fact, bad examples of an unconvincing Doric style. I suppose they were in fact neither style – so what is the point? I have since named the style “Pathetic”. They were shit columns. [J. there is a metaphor in there somewhere!!] Neither one thing nor t’other. Now if I had the money to erect some pretentious, pointless, OTT, decorative columns myself, I’d like to think I could do it with some style! These people who have ridiculously oversized statues and fountains in the front gardens of their modern houses are clearly deranged and have more money than taste. I know I have a stone-effect bird bath with a gnome on it in my back garden – but it is in proportion (and it can’t be seen by the general public!) I like statues and fountains etc. but in the right space.

Now I shall stop criticising people’s choice of garden ornaments (‘tis, after all, a free country) and go back to recognising creative use of language in everyday discourse. Yesterday I spotted some intertextuality in Sainsbury’s. Brilliant! Intertextuality alive and well at the checkout AND I spotted it. Bakhtin would be proud!

Warning: Next year I want to do a course on Film & TV history. You get to write about Eastenders! I’m looking forward to that. The following year, Creative Writing – can’t wait! (Perhaps I should have done this one first?) The other day I had this idle passing thought that when I’ve finished all this I might go to college and get a science GCSE, and when looking at the website of the local college I discovered you can also do GCSE photography – wouldn’t that be fun?

I suppose, as I appear to be working backwards, I might look into retaking my Eleven Plus exam and perhaps Cycling Proficiency – both of which I failed. Being classed as a failure has a remarkable impact on an 11 year old, especially one with a destructive combination of self-consciousness and laziness. “Failure” is a very sticky label. Even if you manage to shake it off, the sticky residue is always there.