Scary Movie

Went with my friends to see Still Alice last night.

Julienne Moore won an Oscar for her portrayal of a 50 year- old with early Alzheimer’s. I could have been nominated too, - as most hysterical middle aged viewer.

Lyn was with us – she’d broken her leg tripping over the dog three days before. A determined old gal, she insisted on coming. Lyn, as unscheduled entertainment, hopped along on her crutches and collapsed in the fourth row, propping her plaster cast leg up on the seat in front.

The film started. I suddenly panicked-

Had I in fact collected a ticket from the multi-storey car park?

If so, where the hell was it now?

If lost, how were we going to get out, especially with hop-along in tow?

Why, oh why, did I choose this bloody film about memory loss in the first place?

I rummaged in my cavernous handbag, and frantically searched pockets. Nothing.

“Why are you fidgeting?” asked Lyn. 

“Cos I’ve got Alzheimer’s!” I wanted to scream .Trying to calm down, I watched the film. We got to the bit when Alice takes the memory test.

“I am now going to give you a name, and a two line address which you will repeat after me and memorise,” said the on-screen doctor.” In a few minutes I will ask you for the name and address again.”

 I muttered the details to myself, concentrating hard. And then the bit came when Julianne Moore had to repeat them. She couldn’t remember. My turn. I started with name and first line and-

“COULDN’T REMEMBER THE REST!”  

The rest of the film was a miserable, scary premonition of what I’d convinced myself I might become.

Lights on, I dashed out as the credits rolled, and scrabbled outside on the carpet with all my handbag contents strewn in front of me.

“What on earth are you doing?” asked Sara, contemplating my tear- stained face as she hauled me up. 

Sure enough, as the others were insisting, the ticket was in the money dip of my car. “ Bet you couldn’t remember that name and address either!” I cheerily asked Sara who was leaning into the window to say goodbye to hop along.

She repeated it perfectly.

“Get lost.” I said, driving off...