By PHIL JARRATT
Out of reach
WE caught up with some dear friends for dinner last week and into the third bottle, conversation turned to the latest round of cliches and misuses of the language that we are subjected to.
Of course, sticklers for correct English are fighting a losing battle.
I’ve almost given up on unique (a state that by definition cannot be qualified) and let the apostrophes fall where they may.
Social media, particularly in its (no apostrophe) most abbreviated forms, has a lot to answer for, but when teachers and ABC newsreaders lead the way, you know the language is in trouble.
But language, like culture, evolves, and maybe we just have to let it go.
Nevertheless, my pet hate at the moment is reaching out, as in “I wanted to reach out to you about borrowing a cup of milk because we’ve run out”.
I’m not sure whether this one came to us from church (maybe Christian Outreach?) or America, maybe a bit of both.
The first time I can remember hearing it was in California about half a dozen years ago when a particularly earnest fellow actually grabbed me by both arms as he reached out to me verbally about my needing to put on a blue rashie for the next heat.
Now I get reached out to at least half a dozen times a day.
Whatever happened to “ask”?
Anyway, we had a dinner to die for, and going forward let’s hope this visit wasn’t very unique and that our friends will reach out to us about doing it again, because the lady of the house is one of the best cooks on the entire planet.
Living in a bubble
WHEN you read this I’ll be in an even colder place, visiting my dear old Mum, quite likely for the last time. She won’t know I’m there, of course, just as she fails to recognise my sister, who sees her every day, or the mates that she sits with and fingerpaints or watches television on the days when she’s strong enough to be lifted out of bed and wheel-chaired downstairs.
Mum’s brain has been shutting down for several years now, but the process has escalated over the past couple of months.
She’s forgotten how to eat or take a shower, to make conversation or comb her hair.
The bubble she lives in is now so tiny that it seems to be crushing her, and with every passing day she looks tinier and more frightened by life.
My mother is reaching the final stages of dementia.
Having destroyed her thought processes, this awful disease is now telling her body it can’t function, despite her relatively good physical health.
As sad as it is to watch her decline, Mum has had nine good decades and lived a full and happy life.
If she was capable of rational thought, I’m sure she would be thinking enough is enough.
What is even sadder is the early onset dementia that is beginning to affect friends of my own generation, just as they enter the so-called “golden years”.
It’s something I think about every time I forget my intended purpose when I walk into a room.
Libby Day is no stranger to dementia, having nursed her beloved mother, Molly, until her death a year ago. Molly might be gone, but the charity Libby established in her honour, Molly’s Song, lives on, raising awareness and funds for dementia research.
As Libby says: “The researchers are getting closer to finding treatment for this awful disease but they’re not quite there yet.
“Let’s help them to continue their valuable work.”
You can help by supporting Libby’s 2015 fund-raiser, a performance of Sir Ronald Harwood’s comedy, Quartet, at the Noosa Arts Theatre on Wednesday, 16 September.
The distinguished South African-born playwright has been responsible for some wonderful theatrical pieces, most notably The Dresser, and by all accounts this play, about a group of ageing opera singers, is one of his best.
Tickets, which include a light supper at interval, are available for $37 from Noosa Arts Theatre by phoning 5449 9343 or online at noosaartstheatre.org.au, or from their box office at 163 Weyba Road, Noosaville.
