Total Recall or not really any at all

After 4 flights and one set of clothing for 31 hours a bath is no longer just a luxury but a necessity. Armed with a bunch of French trash mags and chocolate, I retreat to a wonderfully hot bath until I'm a wrinkly prune. But as I get in I bang my head on the side until I recall I usually lie on the other side. "Can I possibly be that dumb that I forget how to take a bath in my own bathroom?" I ponder as I settle myself. Every time I go on holiday I come back unable to recall where I put my house keys, what my bank codes are and what I normally do in the mornings. I'm just trusting after a strong coffee I'll figure it all out tomorrow. (I think I'm supposed to be a lawyer, but I'm still working it out. The problem is that I don't think I was sure before the holiday either. mmm. )

I wonder if everyone is this odd or just me. Then again, a few weeks ago I drove to my office the wrong way when I was thinking about something and just a few minutes later, having remembered where I worked and laughed at myself, I went and parked in the wrong place, while on the phone to someone and it wasn't until my colleague walked past the car window looking puzzled that I realised where I was. Maybe I am just that scatterbrained. Yet in other respects I honestly have a super memory. I can tell you at what point in the road he first told me he loved me on a long drive and then every point either of us made during a subsequent long drive which turned into an argument, and I can even describe the landmarks we were passing at the time. I can recite the list of French adjectives that come BEFORE and not after the noun, to the tune of "twinkle, twinkle little star" and all sorts of other trivia. I just can't recall which end of my own bathtub to use, apparently.

PS Aren't I looking brown and slim after my holiday? Ok, I'll admit that is not really me in the photo, having miraculously balanced my camera on the loo using the self-timer function. My arms have never looked like brown twiglets in all their lives. Mine are more Madonna-ish, but without the veins. Lying in the bath I see that unfortunately my legs are not long and lean and caramel brown after my holiday. In fact the only sign these legs were in France is the Tour de France tan, which is not tres sexy. It was only one bloody ride that I forgot the cream on my legs. Ah bon, by the time I get to bare my thighs in public again, the lines will have faded and everyone will have forgotten who was in the Tour apart from the Yellow Jersey winner. Time to go and sleep in my own bed. If I can remember what side I sleep on! Sadly I will be alone for 2 more sleeps until he of the punctured blow up pillow is home again. Bonne nuit.