Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE SEVEN: January 2015 – Davie Scott
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE SEVEN: January 2015 – Davie Scott
It’s not good. I can still write, but it’s not good. Not just the writing – me. So many words that just won’t come. Some of them do, if I wait half an hour or so. Some just refuse. I get the feeling they might turn up next day, but that’s not good enough.
It’s like visiting France and trying to speak the lingo. I know enough – or I used to – to manage to say most of what I want to say, but it’s finding the way to it, making do with the words I do know, going round in a big loop sometimes to avoid the words I don’t know. If that makes any sense.
Never thought I’d struggle with my own language, the one I’ve known all my life. Me a writer, too. Actually, writing’s better than speech because you do get that bit more time. And no one ever knows, if you had to use the dictionary or thesaurus or even, heaven forbid, look it up online.
Margaret tells me that people with Alzheimer’s don’t know they have it… is that true? She’s not a doctor, my daughter, though she likes to think she knows it all. I have my doubts in this case. I mean, right at the beginning of it, which is where I am, you must know, surely? There’s normal absent-mindedness and forgetfulness and there’s… this. This blank sensation in the bit of my brain where the word should be. Or that’s how it feels.
You’re doing well for ninety-one, she assures me, Margaret does. She may well be right. I don’t have much wrong with my physical health – just the usual aches and pains. The ‘a’ word – God help me. I’ll go back and fill it in later. I remember what my dad used to call it – his ‘rheumatics’, that was it. Always worse when the weather was bad. Mine too. But as far as I know, he was never lost for a word. That’s what bothers me. If my words are going… well, what will there be left of me? Just a hu… a shell. Someone who looks like me but isn’t. I hope to God I don’t start being nasty to my loved ones. To Margaret, especially. Peter and Alice could do with a telling off – never a sight nor sound of those two – but even so, I wouldn’t want to yell and curse and all the other things I’ve heard Alzheimer’s patients sometimes do. Maybe I can get hold of something to take, if things start getting bad, to finish things off. Maybe she’d help me – Margaret, I mean. I wonder? Then again, she always was the law-abiding one. Is she just doing her duty, I wonder, coming to see me every other day? Does she secretly think I’m a bloody nuisance? Suppose I thought that of my dad, towards the end… though I still loved him, of course. Perhaps it’s the best I can hope for… being thought of as a bloody nuisance but still loved. Could be worse. I’m not so badly off.
Arthritis, that’s it. Came fairly quickly, that one. Funny, you just know when you’ve lost a word. Long before you reach it in your sentence, you sense that hole, that blackness, and you circumvent. Good word that. Popped up nicely there. I think the words that are there kind of shout at me, make their presence felt, pester me to use them.
Then I start to wonder – if I can think all this kind of stuff, doesn’t it prove I’m all right? Wish I knew. I should probably take a test. Crikey, I never feared tests when I was young, always got top marks, but now… Be terrified to take one, in case it showed, you know… the bloody A-thing. That one’s gone now, too. Maybe that’s sure-fire proof you’ve got it, if you can’t remember the name of it.
It’ll come. Try to focus on something else. Last night’s meeting. The Lost Apostrophe. That mouthful of a name came to me all right. Whose bloody idea was that? All because they couldn’t decide… what was it they couldn’t decide? I’ve forgotten now. Something about the old name – led to a big argument, I remember that. Julianne getting herself in a right tizz. ‘I’m a qualified proofreader, blah blah blah.’ And Tony and who else was it… the young man, the one who’s got himself an agent – Rod. Roy. No. Less usual than those. Rud! Gotcha, lad. Rud. Though it might not have been him in the argument, come to think of it. Whoever it was, they raised the roof and the upshot was, we changed the name. From whatever it was before to – this. Couldn’t care less, myself. Storm in a teacup.
Anyway. The meeting. Lovely Helen, lovely snooty Helen, ignoring me as always. Won’t even look me in the eye. Wish I knew what I’ve done. Maybe I’m no longer fit to look at. She’s very well-preserved for a woman who I believe is a couple of years older than me. Could probably do better for herself than me, if she had the inclination, which perhaps she doesn’t. I should probably give up, but hopes die hard. Don’t have much else to keep me going. Looking forward to Margaret’s visits and to seeing Helen’s beautiful vi- … face, once a week. Where’s that word gone? I can only think of ‘vicarage’, which is definitely wrong. Or ‘village’. Let it go, Davie, it doesn’t matter, my daughter would say. But it does matter. They taunt me, these missing words – they drive me mad. ‘Vista’? No. Word that starts with ‘vi’ – meaning ‘face’. God help me.
Speaking of God – young Will there, thinks he’s got problems, when his mind’s as sharp as a… knife. Lucky lad. Only in his seventies. Still pining, of course, for his wife. Very sad and all that, but it’s nearly ten years now. Only three since I lost Mavis, and while I miss her every day, of course I do, I’m not forever dissolving into tears. You can’t. You have to go on. Of course, for Will it’s all mixed up with God. Perhaps it helps me that I’m not a religious man. Never expected that God would protect me from life’s worst. If I’d thought that, I’ve have been dis… you know, well before now. Disappointed, that will do, though it’s not the one I was after. Time in the army was enough to cure me of any so-called ‘faith’. Plus all the stuff you read about in the papers. The miracle, to my mind, is how Will held on to his faith for so long, not that he lost it when he did.
Nice chap though, Will. Remember him as a boy – a real mischief. No harm in him, just into everything. Those big brown eyes. My mother used to say he was the model for William Brown in the ‘Just William’ books. Richmal Crompton, that was the writer’s name. Now that woman could write. Still got my childhood copies somewhere – maybe it’s time to get them out again.
Time to put my soup on. Still enjoy my food, I’m glad to say – unlike Dad in his later years – couldn’t make him eat for love nor money. Whereas I – well, it’s my chief pleasure nowadays, I have to say. Bit worried where I’ll get my favourite chocolate bars when Katy’s shop shuts down. Selfish, that. Should be thinking about her, not me, poor lass. Heading for Leeds by the sound of it. Nuff said.
That new woman last night. Can’t remember her name, of course I can’t – suspect it never went ‘in’ at all. Difficult to make her out. Trouble-maker was my first thought, but that’s maybe a bit strong. I don’t know. When you’re a headmaster for as many years as I was, you get an eye for spotting potential trouble-makers, early on. I’ll keep my eye on her, haha. Nip any misbehaviour in the bud.
It’s like visiting France and trying to speak the lingo. I know enough – or I used to – to manage to say most of what I want to say, but it’s finding the way to it, making do with the words I do know, going round in a big loop sometimes to avoid the words I don’t know. If that makes any sense.
Never thought I’d struggle with my own language, the one I’ve known all my life. Me a writer, too. Actually, writing’s better than speech because you do get that bit more time. And no one ever knows, if you had to use the dictionary or thesaurus or even, heaven forbid, look it up online.
Margaret tells me that people with Alzheimer’s don’t know they have it… is that true? She’s not a doctor, my daughter, though she likes to think she knows it all. I have my doubts in this case. I mean, right at the beginning of it, which is where I am, you must know, surely? There’s normal absent-mindedness and forgetfulness and there’s… this. This blank sensation in the bit of my brain where the word should be. Or that’s how it feels.
You’re doing well for ninety-one, she assures me, Margaret does. She may well be right. I don’t have much wrong with my physical health – just the usual aches and pains. The ‘a’ word – God help me. I’ll go back and fill it in later. I remember what my dad used to call it – his ‘rheumatics’, that was it. Always worse when the weather was bad. Mine too. But as far as I know, he was never lost for a word. That’s what bothers me. If my words are going… well, what will there be left of me? Just a hu… a shell. Someone who looks like me but isn’t. I hope to God I don’t start being nasty to my loved ones. To Margaret, especially. Peter and Alice could do with a telling off – never a sight nor sound of those two – but even so, I wouldn’t want to yell and curse and all the other things I’ve heard Alzheimer’s patients sometimes do. Maybe I can get hold of something to take, if things start getting bad, to finish things off. Maybe she’d help me – Margaret, I mean. I wonder? Then again, she always was the law-abiding one. Is she just doing her duty, I wonder, coming to see me every other day? Does she secretly think I’m a bloody nuisance? Suppose I thought that of my dad, towards the end… though I still loved him, of course. Perhaps it’s the best I can hope for… being thought of as a bloody nuisance but still loved. Could be worse. I’m not so badly off.
Arthritis, that’s it. Came fairly quickly, that one. Funny, you just know when you’ve lost a word. Long before you reach it in your sentence, you sense that hole, that blackness, and you circumvent. Good word that. Popped up nicely there. I think the words that are there kind of shout at me, make their presence felt, pester me to use them.
Then I start to wonder – if I can think all this kind of stuff, doesn’t it prove I’m all right? Wish I knew. I should probably take a test. Crikey, I never feared tests when I was young, always got top marks, but now… Be terrified to take one, in case it showed, you know… the bloody A-thing. That one’s gone now, too. Maybe that’s sure-fire proof you’ve got it, if you can’t remember the name of it.
It’ll come. Try to focus on something else. Last night’s meeting. The Lost Apostrophe. That mouthful of a name came to me all right. Whose bloody idea was that? All because they couldn’t decide… what was it they couldn’t decide? I’ve forgotten now. Something about the old name – led to a big argument, I remember that. Julianne getting herself in a right tizz. ‘I’m a qualified proofreader, blah blah blah.’ And Tony and who else was it… the young man, the one who’s got himself an agent – Rod. Roy. No. Less usual than those. Rud! Gotcha, lad. Rud. Though it might not have been him in the argument, come to think of it. Whoever it was, they raised the roof and the upshot was, we changed the name. From whatever it was before to – this. Couldn’t care less, myself. Storm in a teacup.
Anyway. The meeting. Lovely Helen, lovely snooty Helen, ignoring me as always. Won’t even look me in the eye. Wish I knew what I’ve done. Maybe I’m no longer fit to look at. She’s very well-preserved for a woman who I believe is a couple of years older than me. Could probably do better for herself than me, if she had the inclination, which perhaps she doesn’t. I should probably give up, but hopes die hard. Don’t have much else to keep me going. Looking forward to Margaret’s visits and to seeing Helen’s beautiful vi- … face, once a week. Where’s that word gone? I can only think of ‘vicarage’, which is definitely wrong. Or ‘village’. Let it go, Davie, it doesn’t matter, my daughter would say. But it does matter. They taunt me, these missing words – they drive me mad. ‘Vista’? No. Word that starts with ‘vi’ – meaning ‘face’. God help me.
Speaking of God – young Will there, thinks he’s got problems, when his mind’s as sharp as a… knife. Lucky lad. Only in his seventies. Still pining, of course, for his wife. Very sad and all that, but it’s nearly ten years now. Only three since I lost Mavis, and while I miss her every day, of course I do, I’m not forever dissolving into tears. You can’t. You have to go on. Of course, for Will it’s all mixed up with God. Perhaps it helps me that I’m not a religious man. Never expected that God would protect me from life’s worst. If I’d thought that, I’ve have been dis… you know, well before now. Disappointed, that will do, though it’s not the one I was after. Time in the army was enough to cure me of any so-called ‘faith’. Plus all the stuff you read about in the papers. The miracle, to my mind, is how Will held on to his faith for so long, not that he lost it when he did.
Nice chap though, Will. Remember him as a boy – a real mischief. No harm in him, just into everything. Those big brown eyes. My mother used to say he was the model for William Brown in the ‘Just William’ books. Richmal Crompton, that was the writer’s name. Now that woman could write. Still got my childhood copies somewhere – maybe it’s time to get them out again.
Time to put my soup on. Still enjoy my food, I’m glad to say – unlike Dad in his later years – couldn’t make him eat for love nor money. Whereas I – well, it’s my chief pleasure nowadays, I have to say. Bit worried where I’ll get my favourite chocolate bars when Katy’s shop shuts down. Selfish, that. Should be thinking about her, not me, poor lass. Heading for Leeds by the sound of it. Nuff said.
That new woman last night. Can’t remember her name, of course I can’t – suspect it never went ‘in’ at all. Difficult to make her out. Trouble-maker was my first thought, but that’s maybe a bit strong. I don’t know. When you’re a headmaster for as many years as I was, you get an eye for spotting potential trouble-makers, early on. I’ll keep my eye on her, haha. Nip any misbehaviour in the bud.
About the Author
Rosalie Warren was once a university lecturer, specialising in Artificial Intelligence and Natural Language Processing. But her earliest love was books and stories, and since taking early retirement ten years ago she has been following her dream of writing and publishing. For details of her publications for adults and children, including science fiction and romantic suspense, see http://srg521.wix.com/mybooks and https://www.facebook.com/RosalieWarrenAuthor/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/