From the editor
If I remember correctly, discussions around losing your memory begin in your late 30s. By the time you’re in your 40s (and particularly if you’re one of those idiots like me who put off having a kid until you are on the wrong side of 35), you’re in full-blown “where did I put my memory?” mode. Lame jokes about Alzheimer’s, telling your kids to hop into the loo, and a stomach-clenching dread of social functions, where you know you haven’t got a hope of remembering the name of that person you met two weeks ago, let alone being able to do any semblance of a civilised introduction. (“Do you guys know each other?!”) My finest moment was at a school picnic. I’d brought a bunch of chocolates along and was merrily handing them out to the kids, when one of the dads made a little joke about them needing more sugar. “Ha ha, yes,” I said, before introducing myself. He looked at me a little oddly but then said, “Hi, Tim.” I thought nothing more of it until I woke up at 5am the next morning, realising I knew exactly who Tim was. He was my next-door neighbour. So if you’re a bit like me in this area, you’ll enjoy Ruth Spencer’s column this week on memory. It’s on page 15.