I was reclining in the early winter warmth on Sunday and I came up with an idea for this column.
I often stumble about in the quest of finding a subject to hit upon so I was rather pleased with myself that over a slice of cheese on crumpet and a
Roger Moroney: Have I forgotten anything?
I got everything except what I went to the supermarket to get. Photo/file
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For once upon a time, when I was a mere lad, my father once sat me down and gave me some fine and wise advice which he insisted would see me right through life and some of the challenges it could throw up.
Very wise words.
And I've forgotten them.
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And once upon another time I went down to the shop to get a loaf of bread as I'd clearly used up too much of it feeding the birdies and we needed some for lunch.
While there I noticed that cashew nuts were on special and they are tasty little beasts so I grabbed a packet.
Picked up some nice sliced chicken too as that could go good in the sandwiches.
Oh, and I then remembered (the memory was clearly on form) that the old mixed herbs had done their dash so grabbed another jar... and a couple of cans of some Ukrainian ale which is cheap as chips but not at all unpleasant on the palate.
I put it all in the bag which I had remembered to take with me and wandered out into the sun and enjoyed the balmy wander home.
Nice day for a walk... until I realised when I was halfway home that I'd actually taken the car.
So back I went, feeling a bit silly, and got in the car and drove home.
Unloaded the goods from the bag and... discovered I had forgotten to get the one thing I had gone for.
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Breadless.
I have also carried out the opposite car/walk scenario for an another occasion I did walk down there and came out... and forgot where I'd parked the car.
I looked around, in a slightly growing state of panic, but couldn't find it.
My memory was insisting I had parked it there... somewhere.
And then I finally clicked.
It was indeed parked up.
Back home in the driveway.
Memories are made of this, as the song goes.
They are made of mindful slip-ups.
I put it down to cranial over-use.
As you pile on the years more and more things happen and more and more things need to be stored inside your head... inside the memory banks.
The more you experience, the more you go through, which means the memory banks will fill up like bookshelves.
Information is stored but I reckon because you store so much of it in there some of it gets mislaid and this mislaying of information is called "memory loss".
Well that's my theory (my excuse more like it).
Because it is a theory clearly overturned by the remarkable clique of mindmines who make up the team of "chasers" on The Chase.
I had to think about scribing that last line as I'd forgotten the name of the show for a moment.
But hey, I have just had one small memory victory.
I've just remembered I've left my lunch in the fridge at home.
If I could remember where I've put my car keys I'd go and get it.
On that note, I suspect car keys are among the most commonly "I can't remember where I put them" memory incidents.
And cellphones.
My dear old mum had a fine philosophy on this "where could it be?" front.
She reckoned if you started to actually look for something else you'd end up finding the thing you actually wanted to find.
It is a strange sort of mental brute, this thing called the memory.
It can play games with you or it can just go on strike for a while.
Until 3am in the morning, when the song title of a one-hit-wonder from 1966 you were pondering with 14 hours earlier finally comes back to you.
Yep, it is indeed a conundrum and hey, I have just now remembered what it was I thought of last Sunday for a potential column.
A column about how perplexing the memory can be.
*Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.
