Typical, isn't it? The silly old fool writes nothing for weeks and then, like London busses, three come along at once. I hesitate, dear reader, to impose upon your patience and forbearance, but bear with me a little longer and I shall try to explain.
The title of this piece is, you will be relieved to hear, not an extended metaphor on life. You know the sort of sermon/homily/headmaster's address which begins: "I have always thought that life is like a stew." Tom Lehrer had the answer to that sort of tripe: "Soon we'll be out amidst the cold world's strife/ Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life." Bullseye, as opposed to other taurean produce.
No, I owe this title to some of the many wonderful women who adorn my life. To Herself, who cooks divinely. To my US pal Mary, whose memory is as selective and eclectic as my own. To my doc's wife Heather, who has given me sage advice and who recently observed that, in the local League for Fine Eccentrics, your humble scribe was the Undiluted Champion. And to a very dear friend who is undergoing a mastectomy tomorrow and for whom only my heart can speak.
In common with many of my vintage, I am beginning to have a little difficulty with words. No, I don't spill my coffee when trying to operate my phone and I have never found much of a problem with expressing emotion, especially when we are losing a soccer game with a minute on the clock. But of late, I have found words queuing up to express themslves in a most undisciplined order.
To wit: I wanted to thank Mrs C for the wonderful stew which awaited my return from yet another freezing afternoon upon the terraces. Of course I wanted to tell her what a tasty casserole she had produced. And all I could compliment her on was the quality of her carousel. At this point, Joni Mitchell fans will get the joke - Herself just looked puzzled and then gave her omniscient, the men in white coats will be here soon smile.
Worse was to follow, for on the very next day, she inquired innocently as to whether I had prepared my ancient car for our next jaunt. "Yes, dear" quoth I,"shovel, torch, rugs - and in view of this inclement weather, I topped up the engine with after shave just this morning." Sounds like? Of course it's anti-freeze but it's got the same number of syllables with the same stress and intonation. Doesn't it? So now my mind is playing vocabulary charades with me.
The list is increasing exponentially - and what is all the more tragic is that words like "exponentially" are at my linguistic side in a flash but simple objects such as "stock cubes" and "jerry cans" (petrol containers to you guys) are as elusive as Osama bin Laden.
And yet, and yet. The casserole of time may be a misnomer; my once-fabled command of words may be as fleeting as any earthly power but it is far from wasted. It is a reminder that we shall not bestride the earth for long and that whilst we still have whatever personal resources the good Lord has lent us, we must put them to the best possible use.
So, ladies (and gentlemen), here's to you and yours. May the casserole of time be the richest of stews to you all and may you live long to enjoy it to the last drop. Let those who come behind do the dishes and if their washing up liquid isn't as orgasmic as it should be - well, that's their problem.
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