On the way out

15st 7lb, zero units. I am definitely developing dementia (and annoying alliteration). I have started keeping a food diary in an attempt to work out in more detail why I am failing to lose weight, even though I already know the answer in principle, namely eating too much and not moving enough. I sat for quite some time yesterday morning staring into space while I tried to remember the names of the stuff Mrs H told me to add to my homemade soup at lunchtime on Monday, and the mushed-up vegetables on which she placed our baked cod that evening.

I got there in the end, at least. The first was vermicelli, though I still think that sounds more like a musical instrument, possibly played by trained white mice, or an unpleasant fungal skin condition. And the second was ratatouille – also evocative of rodents. A worrying theme. I cheered myself with the thought that so far I only seemed to be having trouble remembering foreign names. But then Mrs H and her family all have foreign names, which could make this quite an embarrassing problem.

Still, while I dread dementia, I don’t suppose I’ll be too conscious of it by the time that it’s really taken a grip. And there is always the cheering thought that I may well succumb to some more efficient fatal illness before then. I noticed a couple of new skin lesions on my left shoulder in the bathroom mirror yesterday morning, prompting yet another hasty Google search for “malignant melanoma”. I don’t think that’s what they are, but they failed enough of the ABCDE (Asymettry, Border, Colour, Diameter, Evolving) self-diagnosis tests to make it worth booking an appointment with my doctor, the poor sod. On the one hand: no wonder the NHS is overstretched. On the other: I once had a colleague whose apparently unremarkable moles on his back caught the eye of a physician during a routine medical, and he was dead of skin cancer within a year. Still, I had to admire his style. “Tell me honestly, doc, is this curtains? Because if it is, there are a few things I’d like to do.” I can’t remember the precise details of his greatest ambition, but I do recall that a number of black prostitutes were involved in its realization.

If I ever find myself in the same boat, my last wish won’t be anything like as colourful as his.

Maybe I should mention the potential dementia to my doctor when I see him. But that would be against the practice rules, written up on a series of notices in the waiting room that make the place look like the worst sort of 1950s seaside boarding house. These specify that patients should present only one ailment per ten minute appointment slot, in order to keep the place running to schedule. I suppose I could toss a coin in the waiting room: heads malignant melanoma, tails … what was the other thing I wanted to see him about?