I have a terrible memory. Or at least, that’s my excuse. Don’t ask me the plot of the book I’ve just read, or what I did on the weekend. Each season I plant seeds in my garden, confident I’ll remember what’s planted in each bed. It feels so simple, how could I forget? Too lazy to make notes, I find myself perplexed when plants emerge. I don’t know if that’s broccoli or cauliflower. I’ll tell you when it reveals itself.

Recently, while meeting the other guests at a friend’s birthday dinner, a woman said to me, “I know you. You were my teacher.” I hadn’t recognised her. When she told me her name there was a whisper of a memory. Just a whisper. Yes, it was 15 years ago, but it’s surprising and a bit troubling to me that I don’t remember her.

As a young woman I remember wondering who went to the gynecologist. Women seemed to talk about it in the movies, but I didn’t know anyone who had a gynecologist. I thought maybe it was something Americans did. Now I realise–it’s middle aged women who go to the gynecologist. All my friends are doing it. Things just don’t work quite how they should anymore. Copy and repeat.