A letter or two stare back at me from the screen, innocently waiting for their body to catch up with their head. But it never comes.

It's of course a given that I would walk into a room with no idea what I came in for, but I've even forgotten why I'm getting up from my seat while in the process of doing so. I'm baffled at my motivation before my legs are even straight.

I do suspect early onset dementia, but I am reassured by the fact that I recognise my plight. They say that it's when you don't even know that you've forgotten something that you should really start to worry, although by then - it's too late.

You don't know what you don't know.

I was a forgetful child, as a string of umbrellas, jumpers, watches, bags, hair clips, ballet shoes, tennis racquets and so on could attest, if they were still around to do so.

Basically, if I wasn't actually wearing it, it was potentially a lost item.

As an adult I learnt to accommodate my absent-mindedness by having strict routines and places to keep things.

But over time I've realised that as my mind gets crammed with more and more information - work responsibilities, household chores, children's agendas, shopping lists, childrens' birthdays (like - my own children, the one's whose births I was definitely present for) and my Spotify playlist, just for starters - all the habits of putting down and picking up the right thing from the right place are leaking out.

My children have come to expect that I will forget entire conversations (sometimes I think they're gaslighting me, especially when it comes to me having "apparently" given permission for a party), and my husband knows that if he wants me to remember something, it's got to be in writing. Or at least in the calendar.

I guess I should be grateful that my memory for names and faces is still untouched. At least I'm not the one in the family who calls the dog one of the children's names. Just saying.