Now when you get to sixty-five, your memory starts to slip, But when you get to seventy, you have to get a grip. It’s best if you can write things down to put your mind at ease, To stop you losing mobile phones, remote controls and keys. He headed for the village hall which lay just down the street. Then walked into the crowded room and settled in his seat. He sat next to a lady fair, her charms, they did beguile. She said her name was Valery; she had a lovely smile. It’s then he started shaking as he broke into a sweat. The lady sitting to his right was visibly upset. He spoke to her with trembling voice, “I’m oh so sorry dear. I don’t know why I came today; I don’t know why I’m here.” She said, “I feel the same as you: this ticket here I’ve got, I know that it’s for something, but I can’t remember what. I need to take a walk outside and have another think.” So they gathered their possessions and went out to get a drink. They headed for the nearest bar, a cosy one at that, And settled in a corner seat, so they could have a chat. He said, “Now what’s your poison?” She said, “Wine, and make it red.” But as he placed the order, he’d forgotten what she’d said. He brought her back a jug of beer, which caused her to concur, This fellow has a memory, a darned sight worse than hers. Then as they left this busy bar, beneath the twinkling stars, They couldn’t quite remember where the hell they’d left their cars. And so, at last they headed home, the hour was getting late, And pledged that they would meet again to fix themselves a date To go out for a special meal and share the Champagne cup. They said they’d meet next evening, but neither one turned up. Jeff Eardley lives in the heart of England near to the Peak District National Park and is a local musician playing guitar, mandolin and piano steeped in the music of America, including the likes of Ry Cooder, Paul Simon and particularly Hank Williams.