Friday, February 05, 2010

Senior Moments

You would think, after 20 years in France, that I could note down a telephone number correctly. For some reason, I had a mental senior moment yesterday and got the number of a footie mum wrong.

This is a bit tragic because I'm supposed to be calling her back to let her know she can take her son and my youngest to footie tomorrow and I'll pick up. I think she must have caught me at one of those early evening moments that mothers love so dearly... You know the ones, when the kids are recently home, are starving, prowling the kitchen searching for sustenance; one is thinking of dinner and how to juggle various left-overs into a 'something for everyone' calculation of portions, likes/dislikes lists, likely hunger as measured on the ado hunger Geiger counter, and noting that there is a pile of ironing on the sofa that's been there for practically a week, at least half of which has probably found its way under the sofa and will have to be flapped about a bit in the hope of shaking out the dust so it's not ironed on in a permanent, noticeable splodge.

In the middle of industrial degrees of mental flapping, the phone goes and it's Jules' mum who's asking if my youngest is going to footie on Saturday, etc.

So I said I didn't know. And that I'd call back. Except that since I wrote it down wrong, I'm now worrying that she'll think I've forgotten or am a flighty English slapper who you couldn't trust to drink the right wine with a parasol let alone organise a morning's worth of footie taxi-ing. Will she realise I just had a senior moment?

I've been trying various permutations of the number and been getting confusing mothers of girls called Juliette on the phone, and a girl obviously in the middle of a TGIF Happy Hour. Then I looked up the White Pages but I think they're on the Liste Rouge because there is not the slightest sign of a C*.

So I've had to give up and hope her son nags her sufficiently to ring and ask for an update on the situation.

Meanwhile, Ulysse has taken it upon himself to move his bed lock stock and barrel to my sock drawer in my cupboard and, being black, is completely invisible and has managed to sneak a couple of night's worth of comfort in my bedroom as a result. This morning he jumped on the bed and let me know he was there by a gentle prod on my upper lip with a paw full of razor sharp pins. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

He will be reminded to move himself back to his own bed tonight, if necessary with a gentle boot up the bum.

1 comment:

  1. In the end I had a brilliant idea. I rang the trainer and asked him to text me the number, which he did.

    I then rang the mother who'd made all sorts of unfortunate assumptions about me and arranged to do something else. Oops...


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