I lay awake one night wondering where I used to live.
Pathetic, isn’t it?
I mean, I remember full well where I was as a child, including all those details only small humans tend to remember or notice about a home, down at knee level or thereabouts.
And I know where I’ve been since I came to Britain.
I can also visualise [most of] the places I lived in-between. But what order did they come in? And how come I wrote down a list including a street I never lived in? To make up for that, I simply don’t recall the real name of the street I mistook it for. (I remember the curtains I had in my room, though.)
In the end I sat down and fine-tuned a list that is (probably) mostly correct. The forgetfulness is partly due to having been in lots of places during what now seems like a very short time. It’s presumably what young people still do, flitting from one address to another.
But for a night I was really worried. I’m the kind of someone who still can recite phone numbers for my near and dear ones from the early 1960s. Numbers that they no longer use, because they are dead, and the numbers changed, anyway. And the odd postcode, as well as the G’s phone number in Brighton, when I was a student.
I need a book for this. An address book, where I keep myself.
If you recall, I was a bit snarky a few days ago about the idea of reading in the park.
But when I discussed it with the Resident IT Consultant, he asked if perhaps younger people today don’t actually have an armchair to read in. Unlike me. I have at least two. (I don’t use them at the same time.)
Rooms are smaller today, in many cases. Homes are definitely smaller, especially for young people. And some of them have to stay living with their parents for longer than anyone would choose to do. Maybe they can’t have their own chair in a ‘shared’ house.
And in that case, popping out to sit in the park might be quite attractive. Obviously not at night, in winter or when it rains, but sometimes.
I know that some years ago I was ready to scream when I entered one of my shared and public rooms, seeking solitude, only to find someone already in there. And in the next room. It felt as if I was the only one not with somewhere to call my own.
Now, even though she doesn’t live permanently with us, I am under some obligation to provide Daughter with an armchair. One for her alone. (Unless she’s not here, of course.) It’s become my most recent ‘Freaky Friday’ agreement gone wrong, but I am working on it.
And no, she can’t have one of mine.
What a difference a day makes.
On Thursday I felt slightly annoyed with Steve Whitmire, when I read that he was retiring as Kermit the Frog’s puppeteer after 27 years. I remember at the time that I was astounded by how someone else could take over after Jim Henson. I mean that they could sound pretty much the same; not that someone else needed to do the job.
But I thought that it might be tiring to do voices every day, year after year. And that Steve had something else he wanted to do. It’s a ‘free’ country, after all.
And on Friday I learned that he’s been fired, and that he’d very much like to remain as Kermit.
I know, it can be hard to know who’s right and who’s being economical with the truth, but a man who has kept quiet about his fate for nine months, and who refrained from screaming and shouting in his blog post about what had happened, strikes me as the likeliest injured party.
After all, it can’t be easy going up against Disney.
As the Guardian points out, Steve is the only one many fans know as Kermit. I’m old enough to have been there when it was Jim Henson, but I too have watched a lot of Steve’s Kermit.
I expect his successor will do a good job, as it’s unlikely they would pick someone who was rubbish at it, and they can’t really kill Kermit off. But still. I’d have liked to see and hear Steve reach retirement as our beloved frog. Then I’d be happy about him being replaced.