An Overnight Sensation

Gulf islands are mysterious places. When you go to sleep at night you have no idea what you will discover when you wake up the next morning.

There is no doubt about it. I am old. I tried to blame the cats this morning for moving the floor further from my bed but they protested their innocence most vociferously and I feel I must believe them. As I struggled down from the heights of my bed to the floor beneath thinking wistfully of parachutes, I considered the possibilities. Ground subsidence? Bricks? That’s it! Bricks! But no… there were definitely no bricks underneath the legs of the bed and I couldn’t recollect hearing any sort of rumpus in the night. Therefore I say again – alas, I am old.

But I’m not just any old. I am Gabriold. As a resident of Gabriola Island I insist upon the proper terminology. We are an island, as anyone who has tried to walk here will testify. The water goes all the way round. We have a distinct identity and this is not something that happens overnight. When I came here first I was quite a different person to the one I am now, but that newly arrived islander seems to have got off the Welcome Wagon somewhere between the Quickstop and the Gertie bus stop. The first year I lost the make-up, the second year the perfume, the third year the hair dye, the fourth year the wristwatch, the fifth year the jewellery and the sixth year the cellphone. 

To the non-islander all of this may sound a bit unlikely. How can you lose so many things in such a small place? But it’s not just carelessness. It’s a process of attrition that occurs almost without our knowing it. We are biodegradable, or well – degradable anyway. 

I had overlooked the ultimate end of all this. I must say I don’t mind a little biodegrading just to blend in with the landscape, but this Gabriold thing that seems to have crept up on me is altogether a scooter too far. I thought that by the sixth year I had shed everything there was to shed but no! The smart clothes still had to disappear and phut! There they were, gone. Well more or less. The office suit has been recycled into handy swimwear, the briefcase into a useful carrier of hacksaws, screwdrivers and other fashion accessories. The black, yuppie overcoat is a popular meeting place for my cats on a cold day. And somehow I have moulted my way into seniority.

Alarmed, I reported to my doctor. 

“When did you first notice this happening?” she said, and I replied that I thought it had been somewhere between the Chanel Allure and the sheep manure but it was impossible to say exactly. “Then there is something going round” she cried excitedly. “I knew it! I’ve been noticing this happening to a lot of people lately. Have you been to any events where you might have caught it? Meetings, markets, talks with slides, bring and buy sales?” I could not exactly remember. “Come to think of it”, I added, “I can’t remember where I live. Do you have my address there?” She did, and I wrote it down. “Are your bank credits regular?” she asked discreetly. “Not at all,” I answered. “I really have no idea of when they’re going to happen.”  She nodded knowingly. “And there’s something else,” I muttered. “I’ve been having problems with my balance.”

She reached for her prescription pad. “To be taken three times daily, after meals. Two parts levity, one part tomfoolery with just a dash of whimsy. Always finish the course.”

2015-10-29