Down Memory Lame

Down Memory Lame
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday June 29, 2013

I have been cursed with forgetting. I forget new names and old acquaintances. I forget what people do and who they’re doing it with. I have sudden panics at the supermarket when a face I know (attached to a name I don’t) stops me at the fish counter: “How are you? It’s been ages! Have you seen any of the gang lately?”

Gang? With rising panic, I point to the seafood display and launch headlong into an embarrassing non sequitur: “No, I haven’t seen the gang lately, but hey! Have you ever seen such sad little prawns, I bet they got bullied at school for being shrimps!” Good grief! – I keep up this moronic prattle whilst simultaneously pleading with my brain to please, please deliver the name of this person. Then at least I can spare her (and me) the agony of my tediously inane small talk.

Suddenly the penny drops and I blurt out: “So, Penny! How are the girls at Pilates?” Gotcha! The relief is instant. For the next thirty seconds I say Penny’s name in every sentence. Our conversation becomes the festival of Penny from Pilates. She seems pleased. Penny and I part ways with a girly kiss and I promise to go to class more than once a month. As I walk back to the car, I begin a mantra of repeating her name over and over in my head. I pray ‘Penny from Pilates’ sticks firmly in there somewhere for next time.

I’ve always been conversationally absent-minded. But I’m getting worse after four decades of meeting people. What if my forgetting is laziness? What if I am just not paying enough attention to what people tell me?

Would it be less awkward to admit: “I’m really sorry, but who are you and how do you fit into my life?” But then I realise I’m not ready to be a social pariah.  

I have the same problem with reading. My book collection is a vast catalogue of forgetting. I was enthralled by “Cloudstreet” yet retained virtually nothing of the experience. I can give you a line about the plot, (neighbours) and the locale (West Leederville, wasn’t it?). Maybe a character’s name if I’m lucky (Rose Pickles?). But my affection for Cloudstreet is nothing more memorable than a warm feeling. Ask me about books I’ve devoured and all I can give you is a vague idea of a story “liked”, “loved” or “hated.”

Forgetting has consequences for my vanity, too. Deep in conversation with someone cleverer than me, I’m holding my own nicely when suddenly, I’m unable to pluck the word I need from the left side of my head. Inwardly cursing, outwardly stammering, my unfinished sentence hangs in the air. My listener kindly tries to fill the awkward silence by changing the subject, but our conversation has lost its momentum and lurches to an uncomfortable end. We make our excuses, and I slink away, mortified.

Yet I can reel off reams of useless trivia, without even trying. I can recall watching a documentary that said Charlie Chaplin once entered himself in a look-alike competition and came third. I can tell you that no matter how high you throw an egg, it will never break if it lands on grass. (We just tried it at the park). I can remember my school project from year 5 revealing cows have no front teeth.  And I know no-one can lick their elbow. 

But can I remember to dress my 6-year-old lad in a beret and moustache for school French day? Nope. And that’s after reading the note from his teacher a fortnight ago and writing a reminder in big red letters in my diary. Let’s just say I forgot to check my diary. A small boy rolled up to school in his regulation blue shorts and white shirt to be met by a crowd of petits enfants oozing Gallic charm. I made a mad dash home to fetch sobbing child a stripey Breton shirt and a jaunty knotted scarf and missed my Pilates class with Penny.

Lately I seem to be unable to picture my children as babies. This frustration is particularly acute with my eldest. As a toddler, I knew every dimple and freckle on his little face by heart. I thought I would never forget the sight of him crawling commando down the hallway. Or how at age five, he would slurp jelly through the two-finger gap in his teeth. Now I can only summon the 13 years of memories by consulting photographs or watching old home movies. My mind will not reproduce even the things dearest to me.

Is there a remedy for forgetfulness? I’m yet to find it, though I know paragons of memory who swear by Sudoko and crosswords. And bridge. The closest I’ve come to mentally stimulating card games is Strip Jack Poker. Come to think of it, I’ve never forgotten anyone I played that with.