Mild to moderate marble loss

It's official. Well, unofficially. I am losing my marbles. It all started (well, the recent bout) on Saturday, when I drove down to the country a) to get my hair cut and b) to see Lily's nativity play. The reason for a) is that I found a nice hairdresser who doesn't cut holes in my hair and then spit vitriol at me when I return to see if they can remedy the mess they've made.

So, aware that Dolly has been stuck in the car for 3 hours and will have to endure another hour while I'm at the hairdresser's, I turn down a side road when I draw near Candlebury to take her for a quick walk. I am really excited about having my hair cut. But it seems I have chosen a No Through Road that is long and narrow with nowhere to pull over or turn round. As time ticks by, I keep driving in the wrong direction until, at last, the verge widens and looks unmuddy enough for me to pull in without getting stuck. I pull in and get stuck. The more I turn the wheels and reverse, the bigger groove they spin into the mud.

Giving up, with a lot of swearing disbelief (I mean, its not as if I haven't recently lived in the country and have never seen a soggy verge or its consequences before), I walk to the end of the road and knock on the door of the first house. A nice-looking young man in combats opens the door.

'Ooh, you look strong,' I say.

Ben is soon accompanying me back to the car with a spade and some sacks. He digs and we push and pull and thrust sacks and dog towels under the wheels, but to no avail. He then fetches his car and some rope, but his isn't a 4 wheel drive either, and he can't find his tow hitch. Meanwhile, I'm on to the nice hairdresser who is sounding slightly testy but says she'll try and slot me in. After an hour or so, along comes Ben's nice neighbour, Ken, in his Land Rover, and has me out in a jiffy. I give Ben and Ken the bottle of Malbec I'd bought for Cass and race to the hairdresser, who agrees to give me a wet cut without the blow dry because they're chockablock all afternoon. There's a slight Edward Scissorhandsy mania about her technique. Afterwards I find holes.

Meanwhile, during the past two weeks, friends from France have been emailing a group of London friends to arrange a lunch. They ask for restaurant suggestions. I suggest the Riverfront at the BFI Southbank. Brilliant suggestion, they say, is everyone up for that on 12th December at 1pm? Oh yes. I am really looking forward to it. So, today, at 12.30pm, I decide to take Dolly for a squelchy frozen walk. Then I come home and turn on the oven. At 1.13pm I go over to the fridge and glance at my diary. Argh! The lunch. I call the Riverfront and say I'm on my way. I arrive at 1.55pm, just as they're starting their main course. Not bad going, I suppose, for someone with depleted marbles. But honestly. Soon I won't be allowed out alone.

Is anyone else similarly afflicted?