I’ve just eaten the last disc of salty Dutch licorice, that my daughter brought back from her weekend in Amsterdam for me two or three months ago. *sigh*
I’m very partial to Dutch goodies altogether. When I was little, I had Dutch au pairs – two of them, one after the other. They were sisters and my mother thought of them as extra daughters. They used to send a box of goodies for St Nicholas day – yes, I should have written this post a couple of weeks ago. I loved the gingerbread and the chocolate formed in the shape of letters or wrapped as Delft tiles. I also learned, at an early age, to enjoy smoked eel.
I rewarded myself with that precious piece of licorice because I remembered – in time– to do next year’s Meals on Wheels rota. All this efficiency worries me. It’ll be all the harder when the forgetfulness of age strikes (which, as Dave knows, is already putting out teasing feelers), because people will be puzzled and then pitying when they realise. Until quite recently, I consoled myself with the thought that I could be well into dementia before anyone even noticed.
Tomorrow, I will cycle round the village delivering the rotas. And no one will have to ring and remind me. Not for at least another year.