I'VE beetled upstairs because, as usual, I'm in a rush, and I'm striding purposefully towards the bedroom when suddenly, it hits me.

Or rather, it doesn't, because I haven't a clue what I've gone upstairs for.

Concentrate, and all I hear is the sound of cogs whirring without clicking into gear within my echoing bonce.

Time for the old, if not proven, strategies.

Retrace my steps (well, as far as I can remember what they were). Nothing occurs.

Stand looking aimlessly into my handbag for a while, in case it suddenly strikes me what it is that I've been looking for.

Lost tribes are in that bag somewhere, plus the odd Japanese soldier who still thinks the war is on. But nope, whatever it is that I can't remember doesn't seem to be in there, and time, meanwhile, keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping, into the future.

Why is it that I can remember the precise words of popular songs, not just from the seventies, but way back into the nether regions of the twentieth century, yet I cannot remember simple task "A" if simple task "B" pops into my brain as well?

It's no use, I'll have to head off for work, even though I know that as I pass the garage on Hull Road, my mental point of no return, the thing I can't remember will spring forth like Zebedee and I will know, with absolute clarity, what it is. And I'll remember it, for at least as long as it takes me to get to Tang Hall traffic lights.

This isn't a sign of ageing, because sadly my memory has always been like a sieve. I need a "to do" list to remember to breathe in and out every now and again.

I wonder if poor old Mick Jagger's got something a bit similar going on? It can't be exactly the same, because he's reportedly had to start using an autocue to remember the words of his songs, and I've got total recall for those.

But according to the reports, the real problem Mick has is with remembering where he is, so the autocue reminds him that if it's Tuesday, it's Liverpool who have been an amazing audience, and if it's Sheffield, it must be Wednesday, so to speak.

Whatever Mick forgets, though, his audience will always love him.

For my part, my friends and family do their best to understand my funny little ways, but from time to time I detect a certain note of exasperation in their voices as they try to coax me out of the house before I've remembered the thing I absolutely must take with me.

Going on holiday with me is a particularly bad experience, because despite the lists I make of all the things I could possible want to take with me, and despite the fact that these get checked, cross-checked and ticked off with military precision, there will always be a point, about halfway to the airport, when I will have to ferret around to make sure my passport, tickets and money are where I know I put them.

And once I've wound up said friends and rellies by doing that, I can hardly share with them my anxiety about whether the burglar who has already got in through the back door that I'm sure that I left open will turn the iron off safely before he rifles through my belongings