Years ago when I was a small boy I witnessed something which might explain a few things about me, if you are at all interested…
My mother and I were walking into Beccles where I still live today from the farm we lived on in the village of Barsham. Armed with our ration books in mum’s purse we were going for the weekly ration pickup (two real eggs, two ounces of marg, either four paper-thin slices of bacon or what used to pass for a half-dozen sausages, mainly containing gristle and suet). From memory the latter were bloody awful! So much so that it was years before I could face a proper sausage. This weekly ritual was a hangover from the Second World War still in operation.
But I digress…
We passed an old man on the road walking the other way towards Bungay who was talking to himself. I doubt mum thought anything about it. Nor did I until I started talking to myself a few years back.
Since I officially became an old man two years ago on my seventieth, holding daily conversations with myself just like the old man I saw all those years previously has become the norm.
Before you think of phoning the men in white coats, hear me out.
My talking to myself is no different from anyone talking to their dog or cat. What better way is there when no one is around than to vocalise whats occupying your thoughts at any given moment. Besides which, talking to myself means that I always know that no matter how brief, it will be meaningful. Ask yourself how many conversations you’ve had with other people recently that are anything but meaningful? I rest my case.
Here is a light-hearted example:
So am I. I need a sandwich too
So make one
Good idea Jack
I thought so too…
Or there is my nightly ritual when I check the windows and doors before turning in:
Back door – One of those
Kitchen windows – Two of them
Front door – One of those
Bathroom window – One of those
Bedroom window – One of those
Drawing the bedroom curtain closed after first checking the birds are still feeding unmolested – And one of those
Believe it or not, its not uncommon for a story to emerge from my often disjointed conversational ramblings. Not often I grant you. But occasionally one does. Hasn’t happened as yet this year though.