What do you call someone who buys four Snaffles prints in a junk shop in Kenmare - no doubt looted from the big house in 1921 - and then comes home and forgets about them. Five years later he looks behind the Welsh dresser in the dining troom and finds them and makes excited noises of surprise and glee. At which point The Fenian Bride begins a diatribe which involves "I told you to get them framed years ago" and "Well I knew they were there, even if you say you didn't." The thing is I am becoming quite forgetful. I found an Opinel pocket knife in one of my outdoor coats yesterday - the one I had given up for lost and replaced three months ago. I also discovered on going to order a book from Amazon this morning that the reason I don't have the book is because it is already, still, on order from them! I have already lost this seasons "card" for the shoot. I know because I went to find it so I could put the dates in my diary and send a cheque to the Shoot Captain - late again. Is it gulf War syndrome? Is it drink? Am I cramming too much RWC information into my brain and driving this other stuff out? Or is it just age catching up with me, forcing me over into the lay-by and then dragging me from behind the wheel and leaving me in a ditch battered?