270: Where Is My Sandwich?

Whatever they say, it isn’t me.  It isn’t me who keeps doing it and I would remember if I did.  I’m not crazy, just old.  And I’m not even really that old.  Someone comes in here and moves things about but I don’t know exactly who it is.  It’s either the people next door, the kids who live on the corner or one of my family so they can put me in a home.

I remember when my Grandfather went a bit crazy and started doing odd things.  He’d get up in the middle of the night and put his coat on over his pyjamas, then walk around the town in his slippers.  Sometimes he would realize he was lost and start to cry and they would send for my Gran to fetch him home.  He lost things sometimes, mainly because he put them in silly places like under the bed or on the compost heap.  Gran missed him when he died but she didn’t look exhausted all the time after that.

The things I’m accused of are nothing like Grandfather used to do.  Surely I’m not the only person who has put the milk in the cupboard and the teabags in the fridge and it was just once.  I do lose things but mostly I find them again myself.  Quite often the cat knocks things off and I admit I can’t bend down as well as I could to reach them up again.  I’ve never put something outside or under the bed or put my coat in the lavatory or left the bath taps running.

Next door and the kids I’m not really worried about.  I think the kids are just bored and like a bit of mischief.  They aren’t too much of a bother and I never see them.  The neighbours have their eye on my flat, I’m pretty sure.  Maybe they want to scare me so I’ll move out and they can move in.  The view is better in this flat and my garden is bigger.  But neither of them can really make me move so I think I can put up with them.

My family are a different matter.  I don’t have a lot of money but there are a few nice sticks of furniture I inherited from my parents, and I have a small amount of jewellery.  If they sold everything off there would be enough for a little car perhaps and they could send me into a home and not have to worry about me.  I suppose they would sell my flat too, although whether they could if the neighbours had already moved in, I’m not really sure.

So where is my sandwich?  I’m sure I had it earlier, just before we started talking.  I’m sorry, I forget your name?  I was in the kitchen, I buttered the bread, took a slice of ham from the fridge.  I’m not sure if I put the loaf away.  In fact, you know I don’t think I even finished making the sandwich, so it’s probably still on the side in the kitchen going dry at the edges.  Yes, look.  There it is, only half made.  No wonder I’m a bit hungry, but we did get to chatting didn’t we.

Gran started finding things, not losing them.  She brought things in from all the places Grandfather used to leave them.  There were always rotting leaves or peelings from the garden or little balls of blue fluff and pillow feathers or some other odd item that she left on the side table.  Mother tidied up after her but she hunted for them for so long and made such plaintive cries that Mother sometimes left just a small bit for her.

My side table is completely clear and I’m almost certain that it is supposed to be.