Oh, god...... I'm still only 48, albeit with my 49th birthday next month, but at the rate my brain cells are defecting, I'll be completely gaga before I get a sniff of a bus pass.
I was due to speak on Tuesday evening to a lovely bunch of gournet gardeners in Sussex, about the gourmet life amongst the wild gardens of Transylvania. How delightful - was really looking forward to that, plus the bonus of rambling about West Sussex seeing old friends for two days.
Then the phone rings, and it's the charming woman who booked me, last summer, to speak to a group of formidable ladies about Liverpool. In Liverpool, on Tuesday lunchtime. She's just ringing to make sure all is well for the long-awaited date. 'Ah,' I utter in a tone between a groan and a scream. 'Yes, lovely. Indeed. Tuesday. Of course.'
I will have to phone her back because I have no idea what she told me about times and arriving and suchlike. I was having a fit of hysterics to myself as she was speaking, because I had completely forgotten the promise.
A 45 minute talk about Liverpool, in Liverpool, on Tuesday, after lunch. A 30 minute talk about Transylvania, in Sussex, at 7.30pm. Technically possible, in benign traffic, to make it from Liverpool city centre to Petworth in four hours, but down the M6, through rush hour...... I don't think so.
So I've just had the painful experience of ringing the Gourmet Gardeners organiser to confess. She was sweet, understanding and very polite in the circumstances. She even said she'd offer me another date.
These things may happen, and my not being there on Tuesday won't result in global meltdown, but I feel a complete heel. Or to be precise, a horse's arse.
