I have frequently extolled the virtues of a crap memory.
There is that wonderful ability to read my favourite books time and time again, having forgotten what they were about or how they ended.
Equally I can enjoy old films having forgotten completely that I have seen them before.
Everyone knows my memory is shite so they don't expect me to remember their names.
There are one or two drawbacks however.
On Friday I went looking for my passport.
I should explain that I have little places around the gaff where I keep important things and other places where I keep my really important things. Now I class passports as being really important as they are really fucking difficult to get in the first place, so I went to my really important spot.
I couldn't understand this as my system is pretty much foolproof. To be on the safe side I checked where I keep the merely important stuff.
I hate losing things as it gets me into a state where I start ripping the place asunder, and even when I take a breather the old head is still mentally searching all those places where the lost item could possibly be. I can have no rest until the item is found.
I spent Friday evening ripping the house apart. I checked everywhere. I checked all the cupboards, all the drawers and the refrigerator. I checked the old suitcases and the briefcase where I keep my
magazines personal papers. I checked Herself's underwear drawer I was so desperate. I checked the car out though I knew the passports couldn't be there as I had cleaned the car out not so long ago. I still checked it though. Three times. They weren't in the microwave either.
I woke yesterday still wondering where the fuck two little passports could be hiding. I had tried everywhere. I checked the car again, as something at the very back of my mind was telling me that I was getting warm there.
I spent the entire day ripping my
junk room office apart because logic told me that's where they had to be. I found loads of interesting things and while I was at it I threw away half a ton of junk and shredded another half ton of papers that I mightn't want certain people to see.
Still no passports.
There was still that nagging thought that the car was the place to look though. I don't know why, particularly as I had searched it at least three times. I searched it a fourth time, and then a fifth. Did you know that boiled sweets in a glove compartment can get really fucking sticky after a few years?
And then something happened. A glimmer of a memory had flitted in and out of my brain like a bee flying in one window and out another. Something about a really neat hiding place?
There are pockets on the back of the front seats, but they are so well hidden they look like part of the seat. I owned the car for years before I even discovered them, and naturally I had forgotten about them again.
There were the passports. I must have slipped them in there the last time we came back from France three years ago, and I have been driving around with them ever since.
You have no idea how relieved I was. You see, the bloke who made them for me is now in the South of Spain.
And naturally I have forgotten his address.