The Man Who Forgot His Wife Read Free

in West London. Already I found myself feeling sufficiently established to refer to the place as ‘Teddy’s’; the fundraising posters featured a friendly teddy-bear character that had presumably been chosen ahead of the image of a 1950s Teddy Boy or an item of lady’s lingerie.
    I had no illness as such. I had been examined on the first day for a possible blow to the head, but there was no such logical explanation for why on Tuesday, 22 October, my brain had suddenly decided to restore factory settings. Each day I had woken up hoping that I might have woken up. But the split second of disorientation that you experience on stirring in a strange bed had now lasted an entire week. I kept reaching in vain for my missing past life, but it was like the ghostly sensation when you imagine your phone just vibrated in your pocket and then check to find that no one called.
    I had been seen by a regular stream of doctors, neurologists and attendant students, for whom I was paraded as something of an interesting novelty. They were all united in their diagnosis. None of them had the faintest idea what had happened to me. One medical student asked me rather accusingly, ‘If you’ve forgotten everything, how come you can still remember how to talk?’
    One of the neurologists, on the other hand, was particularly focused on my claim that I hadn’t lost memories of general current affairs or the wider world. ‘So would you remember, for example, the publication of
The Computer Under Your Cranium
by Dr Kevin Hoddy?’
    ‘Er, Kevin, lots of people might not remember that …’ interjected one of the other doctors.
    ‘Okay, what about the BBC Four series
The Brain Explorers
, co-presented by Dr Kevin Hoddy?’
    ‘No – I don’t recall that.’
    ‘Hmm, fascinating …’ said Dr Hoddy. ‘Absolutely fascinating.’
    It only compounded my depression to realize that, at the moment, my very best friend in the whole world was Annoying Bernard in the next bed. In one way Bernard provided a valuable service to me during those first seven days. On the inside I was almost crippled with anxiety about what had happened to me, who I was and whether I would ever recover the rest of my life. But it never seemed like I had much time to dwell on this, due to being in a constant state of mild irritation at the man in the next bed congratulating me for remembering what I had for breakfast.
    ‘No, that’s not a symptom of my condition, Bernard. Remember, you were there when the consultant explained it all.’
    ‘Sorry, I forgot! It must be infectious!’
    Bernard meant well; he wasn’t an unpleasant person – in fact, he was unremittingly jolly. I just found it a bit wearing to have to spend twenty-four hours a day with someone who seemed to think that my neurological disorder could be overcome if I was just upbeat and cheerful about the whole ‘bloomin’ business’.
    ‘I tell you what, there’s a few embarrassing things in my past that I wouldn’t mind forgetting, I can tell you!’ He chuckled. ‘New Year’s Eve 1999 – know what I mean?!’ and he mimed drinking as he rolled his eyes. ‘Oh yes, I wouldn’t mind forgetting that one! And a certain lady from the Swindon Salsa Dance Club … oh yes, I wouldn’t mind that episode being struck from the official record please, Mr Chairman!’
    Eventually one doctor in particular seemed to take the lead on my case. Dr Anne Lewington was a slightly mad-looking consultant neurologist in her fifties who was supposed to be at this hospital only two days a week, but was so perplexed by my condition that she made a point of seeing me every day. Under her supervision I had a brain scan, I had wires attached to my head, I had audio-visual stimuli tests; but in every case the activity in my brain was apparently ‘completely normal’. It was a shame my brain had no button just to switch it off and then switch it back on again.
    It took me a day or two to work out that Dr Lewington’s excitement