2 July 2016
It is my turn to take the wheelchair and the anorak out. We go into the village, to let my mother talk to passing strangers and look at colourful things in shop windows. She tells the passing strangers a whole load of tosh but she formats it as memories, which is confusing for all concerned. Especially when the memories putatively involve me, along with various offspring I have never had, jobs I have never done and places I have never been to in my life. My mother is good at concocting these types of memories because she benefits from selectively blocked input channels (ie she does not listen and she will not wear her glasses); completely unfiltered output channels; and in between them a CPU made up of random thought generators and soup. She has always been like this, but now she has a lifetime’s worth of selectively blocked inputs floating around looking for random connections, and it is only because she is old that she doesn’t get knocked into the middle of next week for it.
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