Pop, pop, pop - the sequel

Science comes to the rescue and doesn't, once again.  Steven Rose, neurological researcher par excellence, tells me that the sense I have of my brain cells pop, pop, popping into non-existence is not just my imagination or a pretty conceit.  It's a fact, he says:

Yes, they do pop off, those neurons...
nasty business and not much we can do about it 
except to keep on with the crossword puzzles, the
folic acid, aspirin and omega 3s...

I veer between contentment at being right and desolation that I am in fact observing myself (or at any rate my Self) disappear neuron by neuron.  Maybe I'll start keeping a count.  Oops, there goes another one.  Probably as good as crossword puzzling. 
Years ago, I met a silversmith and asked if he could make me a tiny silver clipboard I could wear round my neck on an elegant silver chain (room also for increasingly strong reading glasses) to which I could attach a small notebook on which I could write my intentions every time I prepared to leave one room and go into another.   

Note 1:  I'm in the understairs cupboard to find a cloth
Note 2:  I'm holding this cloth to dry the tea I spilled over my desk
Note 3:  Are you ever going to get on with any work?

And so on.  A beautiful, sad heirloom I thought it might be.  The project came to nothing because we failed to find a small enough writing pad to attach to the tiny clipboard.  Cut up bits of paper would do, I suppose, but I'd probably forget where I put the scissors.