The slow slide into senility

Senility is a cunning mistress. She’s always finding new ways to twist your melon, man. The latest trick she’s playing on me is Western House Syndrome.

I should point out before we go any further that I’m not talking about real senility. Still only in my early forties, I have just as strong a grip on reality as any man of that age with a young child stealing more of his sleep than he feels comfortable with. But even a relative whippersnapper like me knows the gentle failings of memory which get that little bit more noticeable every year. They’re only at the ‘have I put sugar in that tea?’ level, but still, they can make life tricky. Especially when you’re a writer sitting in a BBC studio talking to nine local radio stations over three hours in a desperate attempt to plug your latest book. (This no longer takes place in Western House, by the way, the cosy little building next to Broadcasting House which housed the ‘down the line’ studios.