My years are not that advanced, but as always my brain is ahead of the game. Sadly, in this particular context it means that the escape of focus, memory, and order from The Slog brainbox is rather greater than that which I observe among contemporaries.

Facets of my personality carefully hidden in previous decades are now there for all to see. So I suspect that, as a greedy eater who previously disguised the vice with phrases like “bonne viveur” and “keen amateur cuisinier”, it must surely be obvious by now to even the most insouciant observer how incredibly easily my concentration on the task in hand can be instantly vapourised by a newly-fallen walnut.

My days now really are ones in which pottering dominates. Pottering is an activity the French call divagation, which means ‘wandering about in an enjoyable manner’. For example, at daylight today I vowed in the best traditions of all politicians to blitz the clearing out of the new ground floor bedroom ready for the arrival of Jon the Carpet Man next Wednesday. But then I opened a carton, and inside was my much-loved 2001 Apple Mac desktop – a design icon if ever there was one. In the same carton was a magic box called technobits: in there I unearthed the beard-trimming thingy recharger I’d been in search of for four months.

From there, it was but a small step to firing it up, after which I tried very, very hard indeed to empty the magic box, but unfortunately it also contained a beautiful pair of of binoculars given to me as a 60th birthday present. I began sweeping the skyline with the binocs, and noticed Mika the lead Pole standing atop the grange wall, as if he might be about to attempt a dry dive. Walking down to the latest building site here, the three of us fell into Franglaispolska conversation about wall footings, dpc courses and roof coverings: before I knew what was what, we were discussing the Ebola outbreak, and the virtues or otherwise of Irish Paddy versus Islay Malt.

I cannot fully describe for you how much brain confusion was involved once I got back to the main house. But your correspondent ploughed directionlessly onward, and somehow or other, by the early afternoon the about to be carpeted bedroom was almost clear of detritus. It would surely, I thought, be a matter of but one hour before the ensuite bathroom was in a similar state.

But no. Turning towards the ensuite door, I spotted a walnut-cracker lying on the floor. These little trucs are multifunctional in France: they also serve as amazingly effective openers of the stubborn corks found in the necks of fizzy wine. Be the contents 2003 Reserve Krug or Languedoc Blanquette de Limoux, this little jobby can ease off the cork with all the aplomb of a top Parisian sommelier. But the sight of it reminded me of the walnut tree, and so I felt compelled to walk outside and inspect the previous night’s fall.

I found an astonishing sixty walnuts, and brought the haul back indoors before bunging it into a sealed Tupperware box and placing it in the produce fridge. There followed yet another memory challenge – and somewhere among the internalised questioning, I rediscovered ‘back bedroom’.

However, what was one to do with the contents of the next carton: a dozen or so signed Pirelli calendars former business partner Martyn Walsh had given me? Pirelli put me in mind of tyres, and the inordinate cost of replacing low-profile tyres on the car former brother-in-law John had agreed to drive back to England to sell for me. John’s due to arrive next weekend….which means I need to have the Peugeot emptied and cleaned out before then. In particular, the three sets of heavy curtains need to be taken out and put up in the TV room prior to winter.

Now where, I wondered, had the metal poles gone which were forecast to be holding up said curtains?

I think by now you’ve probably got the general drift….the operative word being ‘drift’.

It is of course true that, if there is one thing worse than having countless distractions, it is having nothing to think about at all. The famous Russian-born English actor George Sanders committed suicide on 23rd April 1972. He left this note behind:

‘Dear World, I am leaving because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck, GS’

Boredom is indeed the greatest enemy of those getting on in years. But much of the boredom comes from the tiresome chore of trying to remember the needs of mundanity….when really what one would much rather do is remember the best moments of the past, and dream of what might be possible in the future.

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