Forget it

FORGET IT

“Oh my God,” mumbled Pam as she rolled over, trying to recall what day it was. “Never bloody learn will I?” she asked the mattress. “Too much lager, too many fags, not enough sleep; they’ll put that on my gravestone.”

         Despite the good soaking she’d indulged in the previous night she had not slept well and a weird nightmare had disturbed her during the few short hours she'd spent asleep. It would be difficult to forget it. But, as predicted, another day had arrived, the bright sun reminding her that, despite her hangover, there was no way of avoiding it.

         “T.G.I.F, at least, ” she remarked sleepily to the pillow she was feeling reluctant to leave.

         “Come on you lazy cow, “ she chided herself. “Up, one, two three.”

         The room span as she became vertical, her surroundings a blur.

         “Where are you? Come out wherever you are,” she yodelled to her absent spectacles. Never on the bedside table where she was convinced she always left them before falling into bed at night, or rather early morning. One night she'd stay awake and catch them in the act; deliberately scuttling furtively to some obscure hiding place. Groping around on the floor she managed to locate them inside her pink furry slipper. The left one; God knows where the right one was.

         “Another batch of brain cells lost in the night, ten steps nearer dementia,” she grumbled to the carpet. “Never used to lose things when I was younger; knew where everything was in those days. But then I didn’t need bloody glasses either,” she concluded as she placed them haphazardly on her nose and stumbled to the bathroom.

         “Oh Christ,” she cursed at the oval shaped mirror. “Do you have to be so honest?” A zombie sporting a wild afro hairstyle peered back at her, sunken cheeks, black circles under the eyes and at least two dozen more wrinkles than yesterday. Thirty more grey hairs too. A guess; she hadn’t the ability to count them.

         “I must ‘dye’ this weekend,” she told the mirror. “ If I can fit it into my exciting, imaginary social calendar.” Still, at least the weekends were a time to relax and she didn’t have to go through these rituals to make herself look semi-human. She could be the slob she truly was. Forget it all.

         Her mind jumped forward to Monday.

         “Morning Pam. What did you get up to this weekend?”

         “I dyed,” she would reply.

         “What, again?” would come the predictable answer. “You’ll go down in the record books for the most number of reincarnations ever known, at this rate.”

         Maybe the Monday she didn’t turn up at the office they'd all wonder if she had really died. Maybe she would, all alone in her flat, unwashed and wearing no make up. It was bound to happen at a weekend wasn’t it? How would it happen? Alcohol poisoning? A fire from a carelessly discarded cigarette? An accident caused by her inability to see without her absent spectacles? A heart attack maybe? She hoped so.

         “Whatever, make it quick,” she pleaded to the Almighty who would decide her fate, wherever he or she resided. “Not dementia please, anything but that.”

         “ And what are you grinning at?” she snapped at the false teeth floating in the glass by the sink. “Oh time, thou art so cruel, “ she mused as she glanced at her watch. Oh hell, that time already? She had a major renovation job to perform yet before setting off to work. She’d be late. She hated being late, but often was. Probably be late for her own funeral.

         “Sorry I’m late, folks” she'd announce in a muffled voice from her coffin.
“ Couldn’t decide what I wanted doing with my gorgeous corpse, never was good at making decisions was I?” Burial? No way! It would be worse than being trapped in the office lift; confined in a cold dark space for eternity. Cremation? Forget it! She had a fear of fire, wasn’t hell the place of everlasting flames? Science would have no use for her pickled organs so donation was out. God, why did her mind insist on pondering these imponderables?

         “Concentrate!” she chastised the zombie. Teeth in position, the next half an hour was spent indulging in every cream, lotion, potion, spray, powder and cosmetic her meagre income could not afford to buy. But at least there was a visible improvement.

         “Nice face, shame about the cellulite,” she complained, feeling her thighs jiggle as she hurried back to the bedroom.

         “Decisions, decisions,” she muttered to the row of outfits hanging inside the cluttered wardrobe. Maybe she’d have a sort out this weekend, get rid of all the stuff that reminded her of her slimmer days. “Charity shop for you lot,” she threatened her size twelves. “Serves you right for shrinking.” Another blessing that came with age; the development of excess flesh where it wasn’t invited. Pam squeezed into a classy grey two-piece but then realised she'd forgotten to put on underwear first.

         “Oh hell, nine steps nearer dementia,” she shouted at the drawer, yanking it open and grabbing a pair of the recently acquired big cotton pants she’d been forced in to purchasing. Terrible to think if she died in a road accident on the way to work and was rushed to hospital she'd be exposed to the world in these things. The shame of it.

         “Death again,” she admonished her thoughts. “Always come back to it don’t you? What’s the point dwelling on it? What’s the alternative? Eternal life?” God, what a thought. “ Oh, forget it.” She slammed the wardrobe door.

         Grabbing her coat and bag she swiftly left the flat and made her way to her car. After a frantic search she realised she had no car keys.

         “Oh, shit, eight steps nearer dementia, “ she complained to the front door as she reopened it. “I’m turning in to my bloody mother, I knew I would.” Visions of a future shuffling around town in fluffy slippers and a green woolly hat, wondering what she’d gone into town for in the first place filled her head.

         Finally locating the keys, she settled into the driver’s seat and switched on the radio.

         “And now, here’s ‘What’s it all about, Alfie?’ for all you Cilla fans out there announced the D.J. “Then we’ll be returning to the News on this beautiful Saturday morning.”

         “What?” gasped Pam. “Saturday? Oh my God. Dementia has arrived!”