House Haunting

21 Leverton

Have you ever heard of house haunting? A house haunting a spirit? Haunting previous tenants and telling new ones to occupy me? I have. A particular house has for years haunted me. I can visit whenever I wish to. Wide awake or asleep, it's there exactly as I remember it. I frequently wander through its rooms, beginning at the back of the building. I unfasten the latch on the white-painted gate, the blue kitchen door is swung open. Greeted by a kiss from relatives and the hiss of saucepans. In the lounge drinks and stuffed celery sticks are handed round. A short interval until lunch is announced and everyone scrambles to their place at the table. A leisurely meal where we all eat far too much and have to burn our over-indulgence off with a post-dinner amble. We return to a misted-up house, cups of tea and homemade Madeira cake. Our exits are made by the front door and our goodbyes said on the driveway.

An irregular shaped house with internal quirks, but this is what made it perfect. The creaks and groans of the floorboards; the slow click of footsteps on wooden stairs; and the plunk of aluminium blinds hoisted up or down. This house aged with me... Half-terms and Summer holidays were spent here, on the coast, with my seaside relations. Like a dressing-up box, this house contains a large chunk of my childhood memories. Now years on, this house bewitches me... haunting my thoughts, so I roam. The decor and furnishings are always the same; toys and books retain their well-used look and there's whiffs of homemade cooking. Life hasn't stopped, it's just got stuck in this time frame. This house, as it was then, is alive and breathing. It lives on, never changing. Stuck in time, but not stuck alone.

For sale or buy to let, where we lodge can be significant. Memories formed by our dwellings. The history contained within four walls is what makes moving home or the loss of property so emotive. Growing up, my parents seemed to be obsessed with exploring houses or churches. I'd roll my eyes, be dragged round, or sit in the car and listen to music. Now, it's my head that's bent over property papers. I ask myself in my best Loyd Grossman voice, “Who lives in a house like this?” Will this house haunt its present occupants once they've left?

Memory Lapse

Fast forward, I'm 78; I've aged well, a little grey, but sprightly. I'm sitting in a hard-backed chair; there's an unfamiliar person before me. He sits behind a desk, wears specs and has a beard; he looks professional. My mind wanders off; where are we? I try to take in my surroundings. A plain, clinical room with the latest voice-activated, touch-screen technology. There's no pens, papers, or folders. No personal clues about its owner. It's cold and my back's getting stiff sitting like this.

A hand pats mine and a male voice gently asks me: “What year is it?”

My full attention is now fixed on this stranger, “It's 2058,” I reply and smile sweetly. So that's it, he thinks I'm thick or senile.

“Who is the Prime Minister?”

“Some good-looking, middle-class chap I expect. I've never been interested in politics.” I'm deliberately being evasive. I won't play this game. I may be closer to 80 than 60, but there's nothing wrong with my memory. I still cook and live quite independently.

“Where are you right now?”

“I'm opposite you answering these questions.” That's thrown him. He sighs, leans back in his chair and observes me. I do the same, staring at him determinedly.

“What to do... What to do... What shall we do about Heather?” He repeats over, sounding just like an owl. Who is this Heather? He turns to address a female person on his left. Now where did she come from?!

A sudden jolt! A head jerk! I'm returned, slumped over, to my sofa. I must have dozed off watching a Louie Theroux BBC2 documentary. I remember – he was following dementia sufferers in Phoenix, Arizona – the pieces fall into place, my dream scenario now making sense. I'd dropped off at the bit where a woman's memory was being tested. Three objects were named for her to remember. 2 seconds later, these objects could not be recalled and I struggled along with her. Apple... Apple... what came after apple? Total wipe out. Screen gone blank. Shut down. Next: spell WORLD backwards. The woman was successful. I wasn't, my brain just doesn't compute like that. It took me longer. I need to see words written down or printed. No wonder I fell asleep, it was exhausting.

How useful are general cognitive tests? Is it right these are used to establish a diagnosis? How we retain information and interpret the world is individual.

Scrutineers

“Open wide, say ahhhh.” The doctor said. “Ahhhh”, I obediently replied, while she shone a torch into the back of my throat and poked about a bit. Blood pressure and cholesterol checked, both apparently normal. Next stop the dentist. Chair tilted back, the dentist peers into my mouth and continues to talk at me. Why do they do that? I resist the temptation to converse; I wouldn't want to unintentionally bite her. A fine story this would be for the tabloids. The headlines scream:

Dentist Bitten By Patient!

'A dentist lost a finger today after a patient bit back. In a savage attack, the patient chomped off the dentist's index finger. “She just went for me!”The dentist cried, “The nurse had to prise her off me.” The patient claims it was an accident and refuses to accept full responsibility. In a statement read out by her solicitor, the patient said, “She (the dentist) would persevere in making conversation. My jaw clamped around her hand in my attempts not to answer her. It had the desired effect of silencing her.” Unfortunately medics were unable to save the finger.'

I digress, but the above will come true if this examination's not over soon. “All done”, my dentist declares, “On your way out, don't forget to book an appointment with the hygienist.” I check my watch, I have a routine eye test at 1pm, but I'll skip to the point I'm making. Annual health checks put you on spot; you're observed under the critical gaze of a practitioner. Scrutiny is never comfortable, but then it's not meant to be. You may be told you're not brushing your teeth properly or be given advice on diet and smoking. You may take offence or resent this, but ultimately as individuals we all need to take responsibility. Professionals are not there to save us should we choose to ignore their counsel.

These personal MOTs reminded me of how in everyday life we all watch one another. Read each other's body language, examine an individual's appearance and analyse their mode of address. If, as individuals, we are held accountable, shouldn't this be extended to politics, oppressive regimes and, sport? Is it right for prestigious events to be staged if the public strongly protests? When is it right to defy, rather than pacify, scrutineers?