Columns 17.5.2017 06:58 am

Memories are made of this

File picture

File picture

That’s the thing about old age, nothing really matters as long as we’re able laugh at ourselves.

Had a visit from two couples we hadn’t met for many years. Although they’re family, we’ve remained good friends – probably because of the physical absence.

Of the group, I’m the one long in the tooth and considered the wise man, but it soon became evident the wisdom sprung from the three ladies.

Not only were they more knowledgeable about world affairs, but also au fait with any sport (formerly the exclusive domain of men).

Whatever we discussed, they’d pip us with facts and figures – including the number of concubines in Zuma’s household.

But, thankfully for us men, the playing field was levelled when it came to recalling memories of yesteryear. I’m thinking of creating a new parlour game called “remember when, who and why” with the winning score going to the player with the most accurate recall.

The game will not only stimulate a dormant brain, but will have the players in fits of laughter. This is what happened when, after a big lunch, we waxed nostalgic about common incidents too long ago. It went something like this: Says Clive,

“You remember the day in Graaff-Reinet when Kevin fell off his Harley?”

“No,” interrupts Cookie, “it wasn’t in Graaff-Reinet, but Riversdale.”

Chirps Spencer, “It was a BMW, not a Harley.” “Hang on,” I say, “it wasn’t Kevin, I was on a Vespa.”

“You’re all cuckoo,” says Louise.

“None of this happened to us. It was a story told by Kevin after his trip on a Harley run to the Cape.”

We laugh hysterically with embarrassment as Louise is proved right.

Throughout the stay we had many such exchanges where facts were skewed or embellished, but thoroughly entertaining.

That’s the thing about old age, nothing really matters as long as we’re able laugh at ourselves. Better still, at others.

Evidently, there are three signs of old age. The first is your loss of memory. I forget the other two.

Can’t wait until we meet again, say, in five years’ time, to recall today’s stories – if we’re still kicking.

By the way, statistics show that at the age of 70, there are five women to every man.

Isn’t that a bad time for a guy to get those odds?

Cliff Buchler

Cliff Buchler

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