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| _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ |
Tis the Season to be Forgetful
(tra-la-la)
by A S H Smyth
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I forgot my mother’s birthday.
This was particularly embarrassing since
(tra-la-la)
by A S H Smyth
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I forgot my mother’s birthday.
This was particularly embarrassing since
| ||||||||||
a) I’d actually bothered to find her something nice in
Ethiopia [I’d tell you what it was, but see note, below], and
b) It’s the same day every year.
Ethiopia [I’d tell you what it was, but see note, below], and
b) It’s the same day every year.
But even though I had laid out said present on my desk – to make
sure I didn’t forget about it, as I have in previous years when I’ve
squirreled something away months in advance – I had completely
forgotten I’d be on the plane on the day in question (November
26th), returning from California. And even if I had been home, she
was away. Which I’d also forgotten.
Neither of these, my father tells me, counts as an excuse for not
wishing her a happy birthday upon my return. Fair point. Apparently,
though, the fact that I was simply waiting for him to organise some
kind of celebratory shindig doesn’t count for anything either. He
does not think this is a fair point.
It’s been a bad time for forgetting things, a habit, I’m certain, that is
paradoxically worsened by my other habit of carrying notebooks
everywhere. Like entering a phone number into a cell-phone,
notebooks mean you no longer feel the need to remember anything.
If you don’t believe me, try asking your closest friends to recite your
phone number…
So I’m trying to get my mental diary organised. Y’know,
chronologically for starters. I find myself remembering dates (which
is easy enough, since they go in a more-or-less regular sequence),
but not the events to which they’re attached in my forthcoming
social schedule.
I got an e-mail from a friend asking if I could organise some singers
to do corporate carols on December 13th. I said I could. I even
started mailing round. Then I realised I couldn’t: I was due at a book-
launch/debate at Chatham House.
In my defence, the book-launch was originally billed to be on the
15th. This had thrown me somewhat, because I’d just e-mailed a
conductor to say I could do two carol services if he still needed
basses. Only after mailing him did I realise one of the rehearsals was
on the 13th, which clashed with the carols I was supposed to be
organising, and the first of his two services was on the 8th, when I’ll
be in Oxford, of course, singing the Christmas Oratorio. That had
slipped my mind, too, but only because I was supposed to be in Sri
Lanka.
Mercifully the conductor didn’t need any more basses. Just as well,
since it turns out I long ago agreed to catch up with two mates
(from my Sri Lanka days, coincidentally) on the 15th.
I was trying to organise drinks with Rupert – a singing mate – and
offered to meet him on the 5th. I’d forgotten he has KCL’s Advent
Carols on the 5th. And that I’m at the New Culture Forum’s drinks
party. I twice had to check which day of the week the 5th was, with
my girlfriend growing increasingly exasperated as I kept walking back
to the desk diary when I was supposed to be rustling up the cordon
bleu and keeping an eye on the soufflé. Anyway, we agreed to meet
earlier that week, since I’m certain I’m doing something on the 6th –
though I can’t remember what it is – and Rupert has managed to
wangle me a ticket for Advent Carols at KCL. Those tickets are in
great demand, and now I have this horrible feeling I’ve double-
booked it with something else. It’s Alex’s birthday! I e-mail her,
saying there’s a clash, and I’m sorry that I’ll probably not make it for
8pm, but will be there as soon after as I can manage.
But it’s not Alex’s birthday, because that’s on the 14th. Turns out
the 7th is fine. It’s the 14th that’s the problem: there is a clash, but
it’s with Rupert’s birthday party. Aw, hell.
At least I’m not alone. One of the dates I confused (the one with the
carols which I then might not have been able to do because of the
other carols but then could do because I wasn’t needed which was
lucky because I was also supposed to be at a book-launch and
catching up with two mates) fell through because it was a Saturday.
By which I mean I had been told the wrong date, because no-one
launches a book on a Saturday, leastways not at Chatham House.*
When I queried this the invitation was amended. To the 13th. It was
only at this point that the inviter realised the 13th rang a faint bell:
it’s her son’s birthday. Which she’d forgotten. So now she’s not
coming. To her own book-launch.
I’d use her name – ruthless investigative journalist that I am – but
sure I didn’t forget about it, as I have in previous years when I’ve
squirreled something away months in advance – I had completely
forgotten I’d be on the plane on the day in question (November
26th), returning from California. And even if I had been home, she
was away. Which I’d also forgotten.
Neither of these, my father tells me, counts as an excuse for not
wishing her a happy birthday upon my return. Fair point. Apparently,
though, the fact that I was simply waiting for him to organise some
kind of celebratory shindig doesn’t count for anything either. He
does not think this is a fair point.
It’s been a bad time for forgetting things, a habit, I’m certain, that is
paradoxically worsened by my other habit of carrying notebooks
everywhere. Like entering a phone number into a cell-phone,
notebooks mean you no longer feel the need to remember anything.
If you don’t believe me, try asking your closest friends to recite your
phone number…
So I’m trying to get my mental diary organised. Y’know,
chronologically for starters. I find myself remembering dates (which
is easy enough, since they go in a more-or-less regular sequence),
but not the events to which they’re attached in my forthcoming
social schedule.
I got an e-mail from a friend asking if I could organise some singers
to do corporate carols on December 13th. I said I could. I even
started mailing round. Then I realised I couldn’t: I was due at a book-
launch/debate at Chatham House.
In my defence, the book-launch was originally billed to be on the
15th. This had thrown me somewhat, because I’d just e-mailed a
conductor to say I could do two carol services if he still needed
basses. Only after mailing him did I realise one of the rehearsals was
on the 13th, which clashed with the carols I was supposed to be
organising, and the first of his two services was on the 8th, when I’ll
be in Oxford, of course, singing the Christmas Oratorio. That had
slipped my mind, too, but only because I was supposed to be in Sri
Lanka.
Mercifully the conductor didn’t need any more basses. Just as well,
since it turns out I long ago agreed to catch up with two mates
(from my Sri Lanka days, coincidentally) on the 15th.
I was trying to organise drinks with Rupert – a singing mate – and
offered to meet him on the 5th. I’d forgotten he has KCL’s Advent
Carols on the 5th. And that I’m at the New Culture Forum’s drinks
party. I twice had to check which day of the week the 5th was, with
my girlfriend growing increasingly exasperated as I kept walking back
to the desk diary when I was supposed to be rustling up the cordon
bleu and keeping an eye on the soufflé. Anyway, we agreed to meet
earlier that week, since I’m certain I’m doing something on the 6th –
though I can’t remember what it is – and Rupert has managed to
wangle me a ticket for Advent Carols at KCL. Those tickets are in
great demand, and now I have this horrible feeling I’ve double-
booked it with something else. It’s Alex’s birthday! I e-mail her,
saying there’s a clash, and I’m sorry that I’ll probably not make it for
8pm, but will be there as soon after as I can manage.
But it’s not Alex’s birthday, because that’s on the 14th. Turns out
the 7th is fine. It’s the 14th that’s the problem: there is a clash, but
it’s with Rupert’s birthday party. Aw, hell.
At least I’m not alone. One of the dates I confused (the one with the
carols which I then might not have been able to do because of the
other carols but then could do because I wasn’t needed which was
lucky because I was also supposed to be at a book-launch and
catching up with two mates) fell through because it was a Saturday.
By which I mean I had been told the wrong date, because no-one
launches a book on a Saturday, leastways not at Chatham House.*
When I queried this the invitation was amended. To the 13th. It was
only at this point that the inviter realised the 13th rang a faint bell:
it’s her son’s birthday. Which she’d forgotten. So now she’s not
coming. To her own book-launch.
I’d use her name – ruthless investigative journalist that I am – but
a) I promised not to because she’s worried the lighty will
sue for parental divorce in the UK, the EU, and twice in
California (because that’s always worth a shot), and
b) I’ve forgotten it.
sue for parental divorce in the UK, the EU, and twice in
California (because that’s always worth a shot), and
b) I’ve forgotten it.
There must be something in the air. I had a couple of theories all
worked out, and I’d bore you with them if I could... er...
By now you may be thinking that it’s time I invested in a diary. And
I did see some cheap ones for sale the other day - but I’m damned
if I can remember where.
[If we’re running this, assume the situation with Adam’s mother’s
present has been rectified. - Eds]
* And if they did I couldn’t tell you anything about it because that’s
Chatham House Rules.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
Also by A S H Smyth:
worked out, and I’d bore you with them if I could... er...
By now you may be thinking that it’s time I invested in a diary. And
I did see some cheap ones for sale the other day - but I’m damned
if I can remember where.
[If we’re running this, assume the situation with Adam’s mother’s
present has been rectified. - Eds]
* And if they did I couldn’t tell you anything about it because that’s
Chatham House Rules.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
Also by A S H Smyth: