I was out with my friend Sylvia and our dogs, when we met my neighbour, out with her dog and its friend. This neighbour is a fabulous cook, so I told Sylvia about her dinner party menus - I remembered them all, and her partner's name, her dog's name, and the dog's friend's name, but what about her name? Couldn't remember it for love nor money. So I couldn't introduce her properly to Sylvia but luckily nobody seemed to notice.

Two days later, Sylvia and I met Mavis with her dog, exactly where we'd met the cook. Did Mavis know the cook's name? Yes. She told me, so I told Sylvia, but by then Sylvia had forgotten ever meeting the cook. "What cook?"

"You know. She had two schnauzers. We met her just here." No. Sylvia hadn't a clue. And Mavis had forgotten the nameof the woman with the small brown dog who just passed by. Did I remember it? Yes, so I told Mavis, but how come she couldn't remember that woman's name, but could remember the cook's name, because she sees the brown-dog woman much more than the cook? And why could I remember the brown-dog woman's name,but not the cook's name, who I know much better than the brown-dog woman?

We stood in the sunshine beside the pond, in our own private little memory fog, which was heaven, because we were all in it together, like a club. And just in case you were thinking it's age-related, well, think again, because last week, at the supermarket checkout, a young cashier was being taunted by a colleague as if she was a dunce for not remembering everyone's name - how many Jessicas there were on the staff, which was which, and was that a Jessica two checkouts along?

Poor cashier looked rather crushed, so I asked her to join our club. There's obviously no age limit. I report all this to my friend Fielding. "You're really writing about three old ladies who are losing it," he says, rather brutally. Has he forgotten the cashier?

"What cashier?"