There are always things we forget to do. Life is very busy. Things fall off the end of the world and get forgotten. Fact.
Hopefully they are not super-important things, like remembering to pick up your child at school (sooooo not good), or feed the dog (sooooo not good for the dog, but not earth-shattering), or suddenly forgetting how to drive. Which, as a busy mum, would be pretty catastrophic for me, but highly unlikely.
Talking of driving, when I used to drive tour buses for a living, I met a chap who drove for one of the big coach holiday companies.
We were chatting about this and that – which Loch Ness boat was the best, how many people we’d had throwing up on the back seat, what TV programme had filmed where and if our passengers would be interested, that sort of thing.
He said the week before he’d left a couple of elderly ladies behind in Oban. Realising his mistake pretty quickly – shouts of ‘you’ve left someone behind’ from his other passengers did the trick – he’d turned round (no mean feat in a massive coach in the middle of Oban) and hoofed it back for them.
Finding them quite indignant on the steps of the woollen mill they’d all been visiting, he’d said something I still use when I forget stuff, especially in relation to people: “Just because I forgot you, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It just means I forgot.”
Faces always softened quickly with that one, he said. It always left people feeling quite special, instead of forgotten.
Anyhoo, I have forgotten something. And the thing I have forgotten is Quite Bad. It is something I should have told the kids weeks ago ... but forgot. Gulp.
And every week, I think to myself, I must, must, must remember to tell them. The longer time goes on, the worse it is.
It goes like this. You may remember we went off to the amazing, wonderful,magical Isle of Skye about a month or so ago. You may remember that we left Gamford and Jock The Killer Patterdale behind to keep an eye on the chooks and things. Jock, in particular, I am sure kept a very close eye on the chooks.
Anyhoo, a few days into the holibags, Gamford was dismayed to find our one and only surviving Kelly Bronze (Christmas eating variety) turkey, Queenie, dead in the turkey shed.
So as not to spoil the holibags, he didn’t tell me until the evening we got back, and even then it was in hushed tones after the YMs were in bed. The Young Mistress, in particular, had a very soft spot for Queenie.
Needless to say, there didn’t seem a good time to tell the YMs over the next few days, as it was almost the end of term and they were as giddy as chips. So I resolved to let nature take its course and that I would inform them the next weekend when we would be cleaning out the chooks and someone was bound to say those dreaded words: “Where’s Queenie?”
Only they didn’t. And another week went by. Several observations about several members of the flock were made at different times during the week, but no mention of Queenie.
The next weekend, and the next cleaning-out. And still no mention. And the next weekend.
And so now we are in this awful situation where I keep forgetting to say what’s happened, and no-one keeps remembering to say: “Where’s Queenie?”. And so it goes on ... and on.
And now, when it happens, and someone finally notices and says: “Where’s Queenie?”, I don’t think a ‘just because I forgot to tell you doesn’t mean I don’t love you, it just means I forgot’ is going to cut it.