I worry about it a little at times. But comfortingly others worry about it too. It even happened to Enda Kenny last week. Forgetfulness and, in particular, forgetting names. It is the ultimate embarrassment to meet someone on the street and forget their name. I’ve become a master at scrambling about in my mind to fill the conversational void, silently racing through the alphabet for any clue as to who on earth I am chatting to.
Meantime, understandably, the ire of my forgotten subject rises in indignation at my apparent aloofness. I’d be annoyed if the shoe was on the other foot. Because, in Ireland, if you don’t greet an acquaintance by name, it is seen as, well, ignorant, as I’m not of the “hi, how are you” generation.