Tony Dennis in the Wheatsheaf
LAST week, I was invited by three top boffins to the John Radcliffe hospital to discuss the rather new syndrome, transient epileptic amnesia – TEA for short. I’ve turned into a case study!
Professor Butler couldn’t remember he’d met me before, it’s fair to say, although professor Arjun Sen said: “Oh nice to see you again.”
Professor Sen said: “Are you still drinking?” I said yes. He asked: “About the same amount?” I said yes.
Arjunaji indicated that was OK. And didn’t mention smoking fags this time around.
But Arjun did ask me how much I remembered about 2016. I told him: “About 20 percent.” He looked shocked. Of course I remember the death of Tony Dennis.
Met another top prof at the John Radcliffe, a man who specialises in occupational stuff. Apparently I was writing perfectly cogent IT stories for the whole weird period. He said: “OK, that’s a different part of the brain.”
Professor Butler is a very cool guy. He asked if I dreamed. Well I do, in full colour, panaroma view. He reckons I’ll have to take the anti-convulsant lamotrogine drug for the rest of my life. But, he added, rather wittily: “The condition is so new we haven’t had a patient die us on yet.”
I WAS in the Cricketers Arms earlier on this week – it’s rather a nice pub on the Iffley Road, in Oxford.
Eventually I heard a little twitter that I interpreted as a call of Nature, and went to the wazzeria.
Much to my surprise, the wall is filled with these images – girlie mag covers from a more innocent age. I made my excuses and left. ♦
HAD TO HEAD out of here very early this morning to seek a visa from the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London.
For somewhat obvious reasons, lots of armed UK coppers patrol the queue watching carefully lest we suddenly all go bananas.
The last time I applied for a US visa was five years ago – the rules have changed a bit since then. You are not allowed to bring any, and I mean any electronic devices into the Embassy. Understandably. Terrorism hit London on the Tube and on the Buses.
The young woman in front of me fell foul of the rules. She had a charger for her mobile phone and the security guys told her to put it in the bin. But, she remonstrated very lightly, “that’s not electronics”. Into the bin it went. It probably didn’t rain by the time she got her visa so that’s all right then.
I “got processed” very quickly.
But during the day, I thought long and often about the isolation I felt, unable to use my Crackberry and having to leave my PC at home. Once the authorities had granted me a boon, I headed out and tried to make a phone call in something called a telephone box. It gratefully swallowed my money and didn’t allow me to make a call.
How did we all manage to meet for drinks before the mobile phone and the interweb made things easier? I’m sure I haven’t a clue.