It’s not easy being me

Being me takes twice as long as it used to.

I walk into the kitchen – why am I there?

First, open the fridge door. No clues there.

The oven? No.

The washing machine? No.

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The dishwasher? No.

Was I going to make a cup of tea? Just made one; so, no.

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Is there something in this pile of mail I was going to deal with? No. I move to the middle of the room and think hard.

Ah, got it. I meant to go upstairs. I trip up the stairs . . . gosh they squeak (my knees not the stairs) and stare blankly around . . . why am I here? What happened to that incisive mind?

I think I might have left it in the sitting room . . .

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