It might have been the mince pies

It might have been the mince pies

The last meeting of the writing group before Xmas was held at Doreen’s house. As a special treat before the holiday we each had a glass of wine and a mince pie at the teatime break. It went down very nicely and after reading our current masterpieces, wended out various ways home.

I slept rather well that night, for which I was grateful and didn’t notice anything untoward until the next morning when I stared to shave.

Now I’ve recently had a cataract operation on my left eye while the right eye remains in its normal preoperative short sighted state. Consequently my brain is having a bit of trouble sorting out which eye it’s currently looking through.

However I’ve noticed that the person looking back at me from the mirror is not the elderly but comparatively smooth skinned cheerful chap I’m used to. I seem to have grown much older overnight, growing a full crop of deep wrinkles and a noticeable increase in the width of the parting in my hair.

“My God you’re looking terrible this morning,” I said to my reflection, “perhaps yesterday’s wine didn’t suit you!”

So far more or less normal these days, but then it happened.

“What do you expect at your age,” said a voice from just in front of me.

I jumped at the unexpected comment and looked round to see if anyone had crept up behind me. As I live on my own it was most unlikely.

“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, the voice continued, “but you ought to take more water with it. By the way get your hair cut!”

I turned round quickly and found my reflection talking to me. It was quite odd watching it talk to me, even though I wasn’t moving my lips.

“I’ve been on this wall for forty years or so”, continued my reflection. “There’s quite a nice view of the garden from here, although on the other hand I have to put up with you shoving your ugly mug into mine once every morning when you shave. You really are the rudest person I know.”

To my absolute amazement I heard myself talking back to my own reflection.

“Oh come on, you’ve had the best years of my life,” I said modestly, “it can’t have been all bad!”

“Now you’re getting big headed,” came the reply, then to top it all you suddenly tell me I’m looking old. Well I’ve had enough, I quit!”

He was right too; from that day onwards my reflection has never talked to me again.

I some times wonder if Doreen put anything into those mince pies?

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