My thesaurus is my new best friend.
You know how it is. There’s the perfect word. You know it’s there, but it’s dodging around behind cheap substitutes and pale initiations and rather than wasting time on childish games, it’s far more efficient to sic the thesaurus onto it and flush it out.
There are people who might be less than charitable about this. They might try to imply that it suggests a level of confusion – or even brain slippage. But that’s because they are young, or of limited vocabulary.
The only thing wrong with my brain is that after 73 years, it’s reaching saturation point, and rather than risking an indiscriminate overflow, it’s chosen to jettison outdated data and park seldom-used information in the back room – which as we all know is tidied less often than the rest of the house, and retrieving its contents often requires a certain amount of rummaging.
It’s also decided not to take on new stuff that doesn’t interest it. This is trickier. Today’s boring might be tomorrow’s wow (except for the Kardashians). But it certainly can’t be bothered memorising techno instructions when the book is always on hand for a second look, and anyone tempted to tsk about this might like to consider where this brain started (mantle radios and 78 records), how much technology it’s digested already, and the fact that technology wasn’t its favourite thing in the first place and has long since lost any charm it may have had.
I do admit to odd moments of confusion, but this has nothing to do with age or the onset of dementia. Over the years, my brain has developed a good line in mental multi-tasking, and I guess it’s a bit like rubbing your tummy and patting your head while you jump up and down on the spot: if you’re interrupted, you’re likely to lose track.