Something seems to have happened to my short-term memory. Whenever I plan to cook  beans, for instance, I can never – ever – for the life of me, remember to soak them in the morning so that I can cook them that night. So I’ve taken to placing packets of dried beans across the slots of the toaster so I’ll be reminded. And I can never – ever – for the life of me, remember to take the things I’ll need for the day with me when I leave the house. So I’ve started putting these things - a library book, say, or a particular tool – on the passenger seat of my car as soon as I think of it. And I write absolutely everything I need to know in my diary, only to forget to look in my diary on a daily basis. So my house is full of booby traps, my car is full of crap, and my diary is full of information that gets written but not read. But it isn’t just me. An acquaintance recently promised to visit my shop in Macedon, but she didn’t show. The next time I saw her she told me she’d made it as far as Woodend, where she went to the bank and then turned around and went home, completely forgetting that the reason she was in Woodend in the first place was that she was en route to see me.