Alfzheimers?

At any rate, I am in no position to judge. I regularly find myself wondering why I started telling a particular story and have no idea where I am headed with it. Usually it is when I am in the company of a good friend or a close colleage, the very people who are likely take the piss of course. Although, I was once speaking to a random man at a party, having a first (and turns out only) conversation with him, when I referred to someone as a celeriac instead of a celiac. He never recovered from his chortling to properly speak to me again after my unwitting scrambling up of an auto immune desease triggered by gluten and a knobbly, odd-shaped vegetable.

I don’t notice Alf forgetting where he is headed in conversation. I do know that if he says he is off to First Castle, he means First Tower. If he offers to drive you to Red Oaks, you will be dropped at Five Oaks, where you were headed. If he talks about Five Houses, read Red Houses.We can easily decipher BQ as B & Q and Hotel Fraaance as Hotel de France. Our early efforts to put him straight were met with a childish “whatever”. For reasons I don’t understand, it is irritating for the island to be called the Isle of Jersey instead of Jersey. I can even empathise with his way of thinking. Alf lived in the United States. If he requested any information from Google on Jersey when he was there, he almost certainly would have been met with a host of New Jersey related responses. It shouldn’t be irritating, BUT IT IS! Don’t sweat the small stuff I tell myself, particularly as I am sure this one is one hundred percent genuine.

When Alf first arrived, he bothered to learn the numbers of all the A and B roads. Unfortunately no one else on the island has, so attempts to tell anyone about his travels proved fruitless. I think most islanders would draw a complete blank if asked where the A2 is. The road going from St Helier to Bel Royal will always be called Victoria Avenue. Alf has since learned not to waste any further time on this but he will still quote the odd road number occasionally with an expectant look on his face. He takes tremendous pleasure in our exasperated reaction.

There are of course the usual US / UK pitfalls into which Alf will still fall. On coming in from working in the garden he declares he needs to change his dirty pants. That one is a big hit. He tells us he bought a rutabaga to cook for dinner. We can never remember what that is so we wait for dinner in order translate for ourselves. Having spent my first 19 years in the States, I remember zucchini, (courgette). I remember eggplant (aubergine). I remember arugala, (rocket). I can’t have had rutabaga as a child. It certaily doesn’t sound like a vegetable but then neither does celeriac. My husband imagines that a rutabaga would be more fitting as a car. It’s true. I would not be at all surprised to come across a 1957 Rutabaga should we ever revisit the Transport Museum in Coventry when we next visit Alf’s brother, Pat. For the absence of doubt, it is in fact, a swede.

It became clear to me while writing this and noting the difference between Alf’s demeanor when he flubs a landmark to when he refers to the Isle of Jersey, that he is in fact having us on. Alf is by now fully aware of the names of these places but what would be the fun for him in not getting a reaction?