From the edi­tor

Weekend Herald - Canvas - - UPFRONT -

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.


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