Apparently, our genes are at least partially to blame, experts say. Stress, fatigue and multitasking can exacerbate our propensity to make such errors. Such lapses can also be linked to more serious conditions like depression and attention-deficit hyperactivity disorders. More often than not, at No 1, it has something to do with alcohol and the resulting fuggy, blurry, morning after which has the ability to wipe one’s memory. I’m not referring to me, of course. It never gets that bad, mainly because my capacity for alcohol now doesn’t extend beyond a small Tia Maria and coke! Mr H, though, has kindly taken over my capacity. In fact he’s embraced it with great gusto and enthusiasm.
So last weekend was a perfect example of this genetic phenomenon. I had tickets to the festival for the over 50’s, (or Radio 2 in the Park as it’s more commonly known). We got there eventually but only after a monumental hunt for Mr H’s wallet. Clearly it wasn’t in it’s usual place – his pocket or bedside table. Neither was it in it’s unusual places – down the side of sofa, in the kitchen or in the car. So then mild panic set in and the task of trying to remember where the friggin hell it was when you’re horribly hungover began. Normally, the act of physically and mentally retracing your steps when looking for lost objects can work. “The more you can make your brain act like the way it was when you lay down that original memory trace,” the more successful you will be”, says Kenneth Norman, a psychology professor at Princeton University. But trying to do that when you can’t remember your own name is bloody impossible.
Finally, we came to the conclusion that it had probably been left on the counter of the Happy Cockroach, the Thai takeaway where, due to a lack of inspiration, we ended up getting our evening meal. And as they didn’t open til 5pm, it looks like our elderly rock fest would be somewhat hampered by lack of funds. Pity I didn’t tell him to look in his shoe. Because that’s where the bloody thing was! I mean, who on earth puts their wallet in their shoes! Mr H does. Of course. He remembers. He put it there for safekeeping. Who on earth thinks, “I know, I won’t leave it in my jeans or put it on the bedside cabinet as I usually do. I’ll put it in my shoe for safekeeping! Where I’ll never look. Until I need to put them on. And then I won’t be able to get them on because they’ll be something in it. Oh. My wallet”!
This, to be fair, isn’t unusual. It’s just another in a long list, which has yet to be topped by finding a lost mobile phone in a bag with the bread rolls in the freezer compartment of the fridge. However, the older we get, the more things we need and therefore there’s more things to remember not to lose. Glasses – 2 pairs each plus spares, tablets – which has resulted in a whole new shelf creation housing a plethora of medication required to keep us functioning, various limb supports, spare keys, spare spare keys. I’m seriously thinking of never planning to book up to go anywhere ever again. There’s so many things to remember, that by the time we’ve applied/found everything, it’s hardly worth leaving the house. At least then I can have a couple of large Amarettos and not worry about losing the kids, the car or forgotten to take something to stop something else dropping off. And Mr H can down a few bottles of Marston’s Grumpy Old Fucker, safe in the knowledge that it doesn’t matter if we’ve lost something because we’re not going anywhere anyway.
I just hope that the we don’t acquire any thing else to remember not to lose. I’m running out of places to look. And I’m running out of shelves to put things. At a push, I suppose I could always put whatever it is on the shoe rack.
Not that there’s any shoes on it.
They’re in the dishwasher.