The doctor wants to speak to me next Wednesday. It is a little depressing that I can list so many reasons why he would want to speak to me. For certain, he will not say ‘congratulations, you are really fit and well.’ However, that is life as a pensioner. This should not remind me that Ann has bought a new teapot, but it does. The old one was a little battered although I am not sure who broke the lid. At least it was me who glued it back together. The new teapot is from Portmeirion. I did not want to know what it cost but carelessly asked. I realise that I am now intimidated by a teapot, which, if I smash, will highlight my decline .

Co-ordination

That bone china looks so delicate. I now cup two hands around it and keep it steady whilst my body does the moving. One tap on the silestone work surface and it is a goner. That would also depress me, a reminder of my increasing age and lack of co-ordination. Who could imagine that a china teapot could be a diagnosis? Some green tea, from that teapot, activates my brain. That reminds me that I had two blood tests last week and that is why the doc wants to talk to me. I don’t think I will tell him that the teapot intimidates me. Otherwise, I will be put on the autistic spectrum or sent on a mindfulness course. If the teapot starts vibrating in my cupped hands, that will be dementia!

Intimidated by a teapot

What has life come to? Once a captain of industry, or at least of a crematorium, and now a doddering pensioner cowed by a teapot. I need to get a grip, especially when washing-up. All I need to do is keep breathing and it will be fine. I could, of course, buy a spare teapot and hide it in the garage. It would sit there, a means to hide my failure, assuming I can manage the substitution. Who would I be kidding? Accept it, doddering is the new me. Embrace it, it was no problem when I was aged three. I spread that faeces all over the bedroom wall in a gorgous pattern; it was sheer art!