Mr Mildly Obsessive

I’ve just returned from what seems to be becoming my annual business trip to China and this particular trip made me realise something about myself that I have suspected for a while.

I am a mild sufferer of OCD or Obsessive Compusive Disorder.

I looked up the definition of OCD to get a handle on what it actually means and I found this:

“An obsession is an unwanted and unpleasant thought, image or urge that repeatedly enters a person's mind, causing feelings of anxiety, disgust or unease.”

It’s something that I think is getting worse as I get older.

Here’s an example.

Yesterday, I left my hotel room in Shanghai for the final time and checked out at reception. I jumped into the shuttle bus to take me to the airport and then had a wild thought that I had left my flight boarding pass in my room and my passport in the room safe. These were the two things that would enable me to get home and, if my worst fears were true, would result in my having to return to the hotel making me potentially miss my flight. I actually panicked and opened my rucksack to double check that I had the required documents.

The truth is I did have them – of course I bloody well had them!

Also, because I am obsessed with the fear of being so late that I would miss the flight, I had checked out so early that I could have easily made the return trip to the hotel (possibly twice) and still had plenty of time to catch the flight.

And the stupid thing is that in the shuttle bus, I checked my passport and boarding passes three times! THREE BLOODY TIMES!

I actually scolded myself the final time, saying rather loudly "You bloody idiot!” which brought a stare of disapproval from another passenger who thought I was referring to him.

Worse, when I got to the airport, I was so early that I had to wait for the check in desks to open. When I finally got through security, I checked my documents a further few times even though I knew that they were there.

I’m the same when I leave the house, generally. I am convinced that there is a window left open, a door left unlocked or a burglar alarm still turned off and on one or two occasions, I have actually returned to the house to double check.

I blame two things for the evolution of this embarrassing peculiarity.

The first thing is my terrible memory. As I get older, I forget things. Everybody my age says the same thing. I look at a person I haven’t seen for a while and say to myself:

 “What the bloody hell is that guy’s name???”

I suffer from all of the typical age-related memory-loss features, such as:

Walking into a room and having no idea why I went there.

Forgetting where I put things. This is particularly frustrating and I have developed a regime to counteract this infuriating problem. I always put things in the same place. However, Mrs PM sometimes decides to have a “tidy up” and moves them, which leads to me turning the house upside down looking for things, convinced that I have lost them.

Such things are affectionately called “senior moments” and many people I know around my age and older complain about this.

The second thing I have to blame is my beloved Mrs PM.  She is the love of my life but she is one of the most scatter-brained people I have ever met. For example, she has driven all the way to work and left her laptop at home. That wouldn’t be so bad if the journey wasn’t about twenty miles, usually through heavy rush hour traffic. She has also left her laptop at work when she has to do some work at home and had to make the journey back. You may think that this is okay if it’s just a one-off but it isn’t; she has done it several times.

Also, I have come home and found windows open and doors unlocked. I find myself being OCD for her too.

“Have you got your laptop?”

“Where are your keys?” 

She also drifts away into her own little world and on occasion has set off for a journey for the shops only to drift into what she and I both call “Mrs PM World” and find herself on her way to work.

This is something that she has had to put up with most of her life but, unlike me, she doesn’t beat herself up about it.

“I know,” she’ll say with a laugh. “It was another Mrs PM moment.”

When such things happen to me, I am furious with myself, which is why my evolving OCD has manifested itself to protect me against my own memory.

I also make lists of things to take with me on holiday and trips generally to make sure that I don’t infuriate myself with my poor memory. And Mrs PM does the same, so it helps her although she has still managed to become a victim of her herself. For example, no list could have stopped her from leaving a coat in Manchester airport or travelling all the way to Alaska, one of the coldest places in America, having left her winter coat hanging up in the bedroom next to her suitcase!

She has improved, mainly due to my own OCD. As she says, I have saved her on numerous occasions with just a couple of simple questions.

I’d rather make sure that everything is fine and make sure that I don’t have to enrage myself with my own shortcomings.

Perhaps mild OCD is a good thing.

I just hope that I remember to post this all on my blog.

At least my daily readership will go up as a result, even if it is only me making sure, four or five times today, that I submitted the post.

Oh crap – maybe that’s why most of my hits come from Manchester!

The Decrepit Old Git

Everybody keeps reminding me of my age.

Even I remind myself of my age by doing stupid things.

While I am quite content to be over fifty, there are times when I want to slap people who feel the need to constantly remind me that I am not getting any younger – and that includes myself.

For example, an insurance company (which shall remain nameless) has employed a much-loved British national treasure to try to sell insurance to over fifties. I am, of course, talking about Michael Parkinson, a man who has interviewed many famous people and has a place in the hearts of many older people who look back on his shows with fondness.

In the advert, he uses his past triumphs as an introduction into the most patronising and guilt-inducing pile of verbal diarrhoea that it has been my misfortune to hear, in order to get you to buy insurance – to leave money for your loved ones after you have popped your clogs. His condescending blurb goes something like this:

“I’ve met a gazillion truly remarkable and fantastic people in my lifetime,” he says, “and my brain is full of unbelievably magnificent memories.“

At this point you think, “Bloody show off!”

He continues.

“But if you, a mere peasant, want to leave your family much more than just happy memories of your existence on this rock that circles the sun, perhaps you can buy this insurance policy. It doesn’t ask for a medical so even if you are a decrepit old walrus on your last legs, you will be accepted. It will enable you, a mere pauper compared to me, the guaranteed lump sum so that your equally poor family can pay for YOUR funeral – or possibly even swell their pathetic bank accounts because you will almost certainly not have saved enough money.”

And the final insult?

“You will get a free welcome gift.” 

The gifts are a little telly, a tiny camcorder, the cheapest Satnav on the market or £50 to spend in a famous chain of shops specialising in clothes and gizmos for old people.

Actually, that’s not quite the final insult:

“You get a FREE Parker Pen – just for enquiring.”

And the last kick in the teeth? This plan is aimed at ME – because it is the OVER 50 PLAN.

Such adverts are shown during daytime TV right alongside other adverts offering to get me compensation for being a clumsy great oaf.

Other similar adverts suggest that being over 50 means that I have to go on holidays with old aged pensioners being ferried around a weird country in a coach.

Or I can get over 50’s fashion. I may not be the most fashion conscious person in the world, but at my age, don’t these people think that I don’t know what to wear?

Cheap car insurance – “because after driving around for so long, surely I must be a good driver by now!”

And at work, I am constantly reminded that “stepping on my soapbox and ranting” is a typical trait of an old man “because people get grumpier as they get older”.

I am my own worst enemy.

Having younger friends doesn’t help me. When I am asked to burn the candle at both ends and come out on a night out with youngsters, which involves consuming excessive amounts of alcohol or just plain stupid alcoholic concoctions with ridiculous names, I actually hear myself saying “Nah! I’m too old for that kind of shit!”

I mean who wants to drink a Jaeger Bomb? Don’t answer that question.

I am content with sitting in a pub for a couple of pints and then going home between 9 and 10, not staying out until 3am “downing shots” and drinking myself into a coma.

There might be the odd exception but generally I don’t do anything that is likely to hurt. Two nights out on the trot are a definite no no!

And then there is the forgetfulness. I used to have a great memory – I still do, but I find myself walking into a room with no idea what I walked in there for. I look around like a bewildered goon and actually speak the words: “Now what did I come in here for?”

My failing memory let me down again today, this time at the supermarket. In the past I have chastised Mrs PM for forgetting important stuff like a bunch of bananas. Now to you, a bunch of bananas may not be important but to me, a banana for breakfast is the law.

So please, dear reader, help me to understand why today, I forgot to buy bananas. I have never forgotten to buy bananas.

And tell me why I actually remembered that I had forgotten my bananas (if that makes sense!) when I was almost home?

Another thing a younger work colleague said to me today:

“People become more conservative when they get older, Dave, so by next election you will be voting for Boris Johnson; before long you will be goose-stepping up the office with a funny moustache saying ALL HAIL THE GREAT PLASTIC MANCUNIAN!”

That I don’t believe; I hate Boris Johnson.

But this is the nature of what I have to deal with from my work colleagues who constantly remind me of my age.

I was recently received a long service award – a lovely designer watch that I chose myself.

Was I congratulated? Well – yes – but then the banter started.

“You know, Dave, I was still at school when you started working here.”

“How long have you worked here? I wasn’t even born!”

Well, dear reader, enough is enough!

I am over fifty – so get over it. I am happy and I don’t need anybody to keep reminding me.

Michael Parkinson, you should be ashamed of yourself trying to make people feel guilty about kicking the bucket with insufficient funds get the nicest mahogany coffin that will only get chomped by worms anyway.
I don’t want a Parker pen “just for enquiring!”

And I’ll tell you something else (and I am talking to The Plastic Mancunian himself here!):

STOP TELLING PEOPLE YOU ARE A DECREPIT OLD GIT!

It’s bad enough without being your own worst enemy.

Now then, what did I come into this room for?

Mr Forgetful

Does this ever happen to you?

Plastic Mancunian: Hi there – erm – erm –erm –erm How are you doing?

Annoyed Person: You’ve forgotten my name haven’t you?

This happens to me a lot. I’m introduced to somebody and then, when I meet them again sometime later, their face remains etched in my mind. Sadly, their name has long since departed into an unknown realm never to be seen again. And try as I might, I cannot retrieve it.

The look on my face gives the game away. I smile nervously and screw up my forehead so that it looks like a ploughed field as the cobwebbed cogs of my hopeless brain send in a query. It goes something like this.

Brain: For goodness sake, Memory; it can’t be THAT difficult. You only met this guy last week. Here’s a picture of his face. Now get me the name and get it quick. We’re on red alert here, and Face is letting us down again.

Memory: Who are you? Why are you giving me random faces?

Brain: Just get me the bloody name!!!

Memory: Oh – hang on. He looks like a “Bill”. His name must be Bill.

Brain: Are you sure?

Memory: Er Er Er Er --- Yes!!

Brain: OK Mouth, we have a response. The name is Bill.

Mouth: Hi there, Bill. How are you doing?

Eyes: He’s looking puzzled. He’s looking VERY puzzled. Oh no! He’s looking angry!

Brain: Ears – report.

Ears: This coming in – MY NAME IS NOT BILL!!

Brain: For the sake of my sanity please don’t tell me Memory is wrong AGAIN!

Face: RED ALERT!! RED ALERT!! I’m going into meltdown!!!

Memory: Can I have some chocolate?

Brain: Legs – just get us out of here at maximum warp. I give up!!!

Does a similar thing happen to you?

I used to pride myself on being a bit of a memory man. I could recall all sorts of trivial nonsense; telephone numbers, kings and queens, song lyrics – all sorts.

Some of it is etched in there somewhere but the mechanism for extracting it has become befuddled with age.

If I’m watching a quiz on TV I can sometimes amaze Mrs PM with my power of recollection; there have been occasions when watching shows like “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” or “Eggheads” that I can dive into the abyss that is my memory and immediately grab a nugget of information from within that well of blackness.

Sadly, though there are embarrassing occasions when my brain threatens to shut down in disgust.

Why is that? And how can I improve my powers of recollection?

I’ve done a little research on this and discovered that my memory isn’t actually one vast database full of pockets of information. It would appear that I have two different kinds of memory; short term memory and long term memory.

Short term memory is a tiny limited space for storing bits of transient information, for example a phone number that you just looked up or a price in a shop. Clearly the capacity of this short term memory bank is limited.

Here is something that might just illustrate short term memory:



Long term memory on the other hand is a vast colossal data bank of knowledge that has been absorbed by your brain and deemed important enough to store. In my case, all that useless information I retrieve when watching quiz shows must therefore be stored in this huge reservoir.

The problem is that, sometimes, and more often as I get older, asking me to remember the name of a person that I met for the first time last week is like asking me to nail jelly to the wall.

And I hate it.

I’ve tried everything.

Once somebody told me that I should use my senses to remember somebody’s name. I almost got walloped when I said, “Ah – I remember you; you’re Mr Smellie!”

I’ve also tried repeating their names over and over in my head like an insane mantra; the problem with this approach is that the name supersedes all others, including my own, and I find myself saying “Hi – my name is Antonio Cabrera – er sorry, I mean Dave.”

Others have told me that alcohol doesn’t help. It’s been a while since I’ve been so drunk that my memory has dissipated into the void, but I can see what they mean.

In my youth, there were times, particularly at university, when I had a modicum of success with a woman at a party and then completely forgotten about it only to bump into her several days later at the student union. In the following barely remembered conversation I play the part of the goon and the poor creature plays the part of the victim:

The Victim: Hello Dave!

The Goon: Hi there erm – erm –erm –erm How are you doing?”

The Victim: You don’t remember me do you?

Brain: Oh no! Here we go again! Memory – don’t let me down! Name please! Here's an image from Eyes.

Memory: Sorry! I’m having a pint!

Brain: Stop living in that alcoholic haze and GET ME THE NAME! Mouth – you have to stall!

Mouth: Say “Of course I do”

The Goon: Of course I do.

The Victim: I was at the party two days ago. You remember? Phil’s party?

Memory: We went to a party?

Brain: Strewth! Just get me a name!!!

The Goon: Yes! Good party eh?

The Victim: Yes. So?

The Goon: So what?

Brain: MEMORY!! We’re dying here!!

The Victim: We were going to go for a date. Remember?

Brain: MEMORY!!! Get me that bloody name now! And do you remember the details of the date?

Memory: La La La! Boom Shakka Boom Shakka! La La La!

Hormones: A date? Does this mean we may get a shag?

Brain: SHUT UP HORMONES!!! And for the sake of all that is holy - do NOT say things like that to Penis. Memory! Just a name – just one little name!! Eyes – report directly to Mouth while I try to salvage this. Face – hold it together.

Face: Oh no! Purple alert!!

Eyes: Mouth – she’s a bit of a mutt.

Mouth: OK – I’ll sort it out!

The Victim: Well? Do you remember arranging a date?

The Goon: A date? With you? Ha ha ha! I must have been paralytic!!!!

Eyes: DANGER!!! She’s looking violent!!!

Face: Oh no! MELTDOWN!!

Penis: Did someone say "shag?"

Bollocks: Incoming!!!! AARRRGGGHHH!!!!!!

I think I’ve always been doomed in the memory area and probably will always be.

Oh well, c’est la vie – or, as whatsisname says – erm, erm, erm – oh, never mind!!!