I had to chop a real actual lettuce today, because I had decided to make something for tea that required lettuce. Not prepared salad or rocket leaves, but lettuce. Wow, do the shops still sell lettuces? Yes, apparently they do. But, apart from me whenever the moon shines blue in the sky, who buys them? I mean, you have to wash them then chop them all by yourself. Who needs that kind of shit at the end of a busy day? And it wasn't just the lettuce that caused a problem. I then had to microwave some taco shells, grate some cheese (I believe you can buy it ready-grated in certain shops. Woo hoo!), fry some mince with a sachet of spicy powder and set the table. The exhaustion unfortunately meant that I am now beyond being able to contemplate writing any poetry. Dear me, will I ever write a poem?!
So I took the lettuce from the fridge, unwrapped it and held it above the chopping board. The knife in my right hand was ready to go. But go where? I went blank. I just didn't know what to do: should I place the lettuce on its stump and cut downwards, or turn it 90 degrees and cut parallel to the said stump? Or maybe cut diagonally? I'm sure there's a correct way, but I wondered whether it really mattered that much. I mean, lettuce doesn't really taste of anything anyway, so what's the point in worrying? A memory of chopping my way through A-Levels as a Saturday, Sunday and Wednesday afternoon girl at Debenhams staff canteen to fund my Friday nights (Merrydown cider in the park followed by snakebites in the pub and club) suddenly surfaced. I chopped tomatoes, onions, cucumber, pepper and lettuce. And they all had a specific way of needing to be sliced. Really. So which way was it?
In the olden days (my olden days are the early 90s, when I hit my mid to late teens and discovered all the joys and none of the miseries of life) I could do anything. Is it really old age (I'm 35!) that turns the brain to mush and lets panic set in so easily, or is it that the world is turning that much faster? Someone asked me last week what my phone number was and I didn't even know. Then I realised that I didn't know anyone's phone number. Not a soul's. I used to know all of my friends numbers off the top of my head (I had 5 or 6 friends who I socialised with regularly. Now I have 74 at last count. I don't know how any of them smell - except my husband!). I can still remember them now. Maybe I should try and ring them and see what happens: 'Is Sarah in please?' 'No, she moved in with her husband 10 years ago and has 4 kids. She only comes here at xmas. What did you want her for?' 'Oh nothing. Just to see if she fancied a drink in the cemetery. I'll try on December 25th. Bye!' And yet I don't even know the number of my husband, my daughter or my dad. Nevermind, I have them on speed dial on my mobile.
Then when my daughter asked me to sew a button on her favourite coat I nearly choked, reminding myself of Eddy on Ab Fab. 'Sew a button on? Don't be silly, chuck it in the bin and I'll buy you a new one at the weekend.' I do own a sewing kit. In fact, I think I own about 10. We have a carrier bag in the airing cupboard (we don't air anything in it - it just 'is') that stores everything that my husband relieves from overstocked hotels on his global travels. I should put the sewing kits in the cupboard with my mini screwdrivers, specifically designed and put into xmas crackers to assist with changing plugs. That's a joke. My husband is a design engineer and I bet even he couldn't - no, wouldn't - change a plug. I bet the cost of a plug nowadays is higher than the cost of a new kettle.
What else can't I do? Write, funnily enough. My wrists have evolved in such a way that my handwriting is very slow and incredibly messy. In fact, I now write so slowly that I forget what I wanted to say before I get to the end of the sentence. So, for creative purposes I find it much easier to type. So in that respect, technology hasn't evolved quickly enough for me. I mean, I'm sitting on a salty cliff top watching the specific patterns of the different seabirds and inspiration strikes! Instead of a notebook I need something I can type into quickly. I don't own a laptop that will fit into my coat pocket, so I'm scuppered. 20 years ago this wouldn't have been a problem. Not only could I have expressed my feelings eloquently on-the-go, but I could have dashed back home and made a home-made salad. Except maybe on a day like today, when my car might not have started at all. Even with the now extinct skill of clutch, accelerator, clutch, clutch, hard accelerator, vroooooom!
Would I go back to the olden days, when everything was done the long-way-round? Hmmmmm .... Maybe I feel the inspiration for a poem. Or maybe I'll just go and watch the Vicar of Dibley instead.
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