Everyone tells us that as we get older, our memory gets worse.

Well I don’t know about you, but my memory is terrible. I seem to begin most of my conversations lately with ‘tell me if I’ve already told you this before…’ closely followed by ‘what was I telling you?’

That’s followed by me gazing at the poor person who is patiently waiting for me to continue while I am hoping that they can either read minds or the words will magically flash up on their faces.

Sometimes I will find myself stood in the middle of the room, just wondering what the hell I came in for.

Even in the middle of conversations I dare not stop talking for fear of losing my thread, leaving the other person looking bewildered.

To be perfectly honest the biggest lie that I tell myself is that I don’t have to write things down, that I will remember them like shopping lists. I spend more time in the supermarket just stood in the middle of the aisle hoping that something will pop into my head and give me a clue as to what I’m supposed to be shopping for as I walk – aimlessly – up and down.

One thing I can guarantee is that I will go home with everything except what I need. On the odd times that I have made a list I always forget to take it with me.

It’s no good on the kitchen top, is it?

Some days I amaze myself at the random thoughts that just pop into my head, and no sooner do they pop there than they’re out of my mouth.

Oh, heck, I’m sure that all of my brain cells are just packing up and leaving, heading off to a quaint little village in Cornwall or some place.

The only thing faster than the speed of thought in my case is the speed of forgetfulness. Oh, it’s a good job that I have other people around to remind me of what it was that I’d forgotten otherwise there’d be two people trying to remember.

It can take literally five seconds and my train of thought has left the station – sometimes I think that the train hasn’t even entered the station.

I wish I had a pound for every time I go upstairs to apparently just stand in the bathroom, then the bedroom, gazing around to find that once I get back downstairs I’ll remember what I’d gone up for in the first place.

There have been some times (very odd times, I’ll admit) that I think that I’ve got it together and I seem to be plodding along nicely when bam, I have a memory block.

I must spend hours a week just trying to remember things that I’ve forgotten, and names of people and places, even TV programmes.

I do the alphabet thing where I say ‘a, a, a… b, b, b… c, c, c’ hoping that I can remember what letter it begins with.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that I was losing the plot. The truth is that I can’t remember where I put the flaming plot! Or did I ever have it to begin with?

I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t age that makes me forgetful but the fact that I just have too many silly thoughts and things to think about.

Well, that’s my excuse anyway. Now… where the hell did I leave my glasses?