I Had It On The Tip Of My ....Thingy

It is almost painful watching someone suffer from a TOT. They almost writhe in their agony to retrieve the bloody... you know, the bloody wotsit. A solo TOT is bad enough but the things are contagious! As soon as someone says to me, "You know... thingy? Wot's-he-called? The good-looking one... no, not him, the other one... oh God!" That's it. I am right there with them in their pain.

How do you deal with yours?

During my childhood, my Cornish grandparents merely substituted, "woddycull" for the missing appellation. I actually thought for a number of years that "Woddy Cull" was a real person although I realised that sometimes it was a place dependant upon context.

I resort to mentally working my way through the alphabet. Though very often I know what letter it starts with - that makes it even worse. Then I try combinations of letters. Then I visualise the thing or the face which hovers so tantalisingly, almost teasing me with their lurking syllables. No good.

I tend to keep banging up against other words; I know they are nowhere near the one I need but they insist on remaining in full view with the quarry just lurking out of sight behind them. "Get out of the way!" I yell, "It's not you I want; it's you, there, behind. Come out and show yourself!" Doesn't work. My target is beginning to slip further away.

Then the panic sets in. What if the other person I'm sharing the moment with gets it first? Oh I hate that! It's mine; my lost memory and I want that triumphant moment of recollection. And what a triumph... it is almost a cerebral orgasm. No it IS a cerebral orgasm. But for the moment, it is elusive. Playing with me, teasing me with its coquettish behaviour. Flirt with me some more, I silently beg. Come to me. Be mine. But still the dastardly noun remains one step ahead of my fevered struggle to verbalise it.

Eventually I give up, as of course I must. Frustrated, I set my quest aside - there are more important things that must be attended to. Later, I return to my search. Now sometimes this is the point where the elusive noun pops right into full view of my cerebral cortex causing me to slap my head in the general area of said brain portion and rush to the phone to report my triumph to my joint sufferer. At other times the damn thing is still taunting and teasing. Sighing, I admit defeat.

It could be days later, when doing something totally unrelated, the object of my mental search reveals itself. "Too late," I hiss, "the moment has passed; you are no longer required." Then I muse on the strange ways of the human mind - how at some level my sub-conscious was still hard at work; turning over all the unturned stones of neurons and brain-cells, flicking through the filing cabinets of millions of stored data-bytes, and all without my conscious awareness. I can't help but be awed by this achievement and wonder how I can put this talent to good use... I resolve to do some research - there's that book... you know the one? By wotsisname? The brain author bloke.... Oh bugger.

MAJOR-GENERAL BULDEEFF was suffering from toothache. He had rinsed his mouth with vodka and cognac; applied tobacco ashes, opium, turpentine, and kerosene to the aching tooth; rubbed his cheek with iodine, and put cotton wool soaked with alcohol into his ears, but all these remedies had either failed to relieve him or else had made him sick.

Read the rest of the short story HERE