The Last Furlong

Comments on the race of life.



Since last year, I have gone to pot. I used to make notes, record my weight, blood sugar and what I had eaten. Sometimes, I might jot down an idea for a blog post.

But for some reason, all discipline has evaporated.

I couldn’t be arsed any more. (English term meaning couldn’t be bothered)

Mr Furlong and I are having trouble with our memories. The most common phrases used in our home are “Can’t remember” or “I don’t know”.

Without Mr Furlong, I’d have trouble writing anything at all. For when I can’t remember a word, a name or the spelling, there’s a chance that he can.

One morning recently, he stood in my doorway in his very smart navy blue pyjamas looking very dapper and refreshed from a good nights rest. He made an observation which was very funny.

We fell about laughing.

I said “Oh, that would make a wonderful blog post!”

I should have written it down, but I didn’t.

But now when I ask him what it was he said, he can’t remember.

And neither can I.

Our minds are BLANK.

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