Am I too young to have just had a "senior" moment?

If you were to put me on one side of a set of scales and put half a century on the other then I would slowly sink. I am half a century plus that extra couple of powdery-coated lemon bonbons that they used to pop into the paper bag just to make sure that you knew you weren't being cheated. I am thirteen years old with an awful lot of experience.

I should quickly mention that this "senior moment" did not involve incontinence in any way and nor did it involve a paper bag of bonbons.

Nope. There I was, ambling down my favourite lane (shown above), contemplating the plot of "The Attenborough Alternative" and wondering if I could really get away with substituting a fluffed-up white-faced sheep in four Ugg boots for a Polar Bear in the "birth" scene, when two confusing things happened.

My pocket began to vibrate in that curious, strangely distant, should-I-worry-about-that sort of way - and my brain decided to just accept that sometimes the pockets of green waxed jackets just do vibrate for no reason. The voice of reason even whispered to me that the pocket was probably just registering sympathy with easements in the Mindanao Trench or possibly a large lorry passing on the A16 a couple of miles away. Whatever it was, it was nothing to do with me and it would be polite to just let it continue without undue fuss. I waited a few moments for an elbow or a buttock to join in the tembling vibrations, but no, so on I went, Brain and I.

Then I heard the most peculiar birdsong. It was sort of a brr-ding brr-ding ding-ding-brr. Brain stopped me walking for that one and I actually started looking around at the (sparse) trees, wondering what on earth might be making that sort of bird call. Was it perhaps an undiscovered Lesser-Buttocked Thrumpet Warbler or maybe even the legendary Bald Gargling Sparrow, not seen since the Middle Ages? I even turned around to check trees behind me in case the rare feathered wee beastie was shouting abuse from a branch I had already passed. I shielded my eyes from the low Winter sun and checked the sky for the undercarriage of a circling Robinson's Kneecap-Eagle or flock of hunting Pterodactochickens, to no avail.

It took a hell of a long time for it to dawn on me that it was my mobile phone ringing...

Thank goodness I was on my own and don't have to confess to that in public!

It reminded me of that occasion when I closed the front door of my house, got in my car, clipped on my seatbelt, stuck the car in gear and squeezed the accelerator and then couldn't for the life of me figure out why it wouldn't move. It took a couple of minutes to discover then that it helps if you put the keys in the ignition and actually start the engine...

Is there some sort of Home for the Bewildered that I can check myself into?

Do you think I ought to begin carrying a note with my name and address on it? Maybe have my mittens on string fed up one sleeve and down the other?

At least today I could follow this home:

Pterodactochickens feeding on seagulls (the seagulls are the white dots)

I shall self-medicate with pure, uncut caffeine and see if that helps. Nanny? Please put the kettle on and fetch me my favourite hookah.