Friday 9 January 2015


Oh dear. The Alzheimer's is marching on with a vengeance.

As I return from my 'morning' dog walk at 2.45pm, I spy my next-door neighbour, bearing a red woggle (please just google woggle), trying to coax her two little children out of the door.

'It takes half-an-hour to go anywhere,' she says with a tight smile. 'We're just off swimming at Camberwell.'

'Really!' I exclaim. 'Camberwell! That's a long way to go for a swim.'

She looks slightly perplexed, but explains that it's a nice old-fashioned Victorian swimming baths and has just been renovated and is really much nicer than Brixton.

But still! 'Camberwell!' I can't help exclaiming again.

'Well, we used to live there,' she explains, scooping up the smallest child with her woggle-free arm. 'It doesn't take that long to get there.'

I nearly ask if they're tying the swimming in with a weekend away, but then something starts flickering at the edge of my consciousness. Camberwell. Camberwell... No that's not right. Camber... Camber... What's the name of that Army place in Surrey? Camberley! That's it. Camberwell is next to Brixton and Herne Hill, where we reside, and takes about 10 minutes to get to. Rather than the one and half hours I was envisaging to get to Camberley.

Oh dear.

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