Ever walked into a room and wondered what the heck you were doing there?

Of course, we all have. Even as an apprentice I often found myself staring into the back of the ute wondering what I came out to get. I’d resolve to backtrack and see if I came up with an inspiration, before the boss caught me wandering around in circles. Something would always flick the switch and I would backtrack my backtracking and return with my elusive quarry.

Now, similar predicaments prompt the classic, “Silly old bugger!” either self-expressed or helpfully offered by witnesses trying to make light of my pathetic condition. I don’t know if my meandering memory is getting worse or if I’m more aware of my chronic DOBS. (Date of Birth Syndrome)

Ironically, it’s the minor things, that should be easiest to recall, to slip through the cracks first. It’s my belief that the memory part of my subconscious prioritizes the list and focuses only on the important items. If I had to pack my clothes for a trip away next week, top up the windscreen wiper water in the ute, and check that I have ear plugs in the glove box, I know which I’ll remember and which will probably go through to the keeper.

All these tasks are important, so I need to make my subconscious agree. Here’s what I do when I have multiple tasks to perform, to pretty much guarantee that I remember them all, even when distracted.

First thing is to irrefutably convince my subconscious that I have three tasks to perform. Three is the number. Not four. Not two. The number is three. Thank you, Monty Python.

I might lock this in by visualizing the three of hearts playing card, as huge as a drive-in screen, the hearts flashing and pulsing, in a sinus symphony.

Next, nail the individual tasks.

My suitcase is as big as a road train; crocodile skin clad, bulging with my sartorial wardrobe, and my West Coast Eagles scarf flapping defiantly, snared in the top zipper.

The open bonnet of my red ute allows a metre-diameter gyrating fire hose to gush a river of frothing water into the wiper filler, miraculously without spilling a drop.

I’m crawling on the stage at an AC/DC concert, trapped in front of an amp the size of a 2-story house. The only thing that can save the T.N.T. from exploding in my head is the pair of ear plugs attempting a jailbreak, wriggling for the safety of the highway to hell. My right hand reaches like a chameleon’s tongue arresting the potential escapees, stuffing them into my ears and smiling, “Rock and Roll ain’t noise pollution.”

Add your own inimitable insanity to this strange strategy and never again find yourself at the bakery counter drooling over the sumptuous sweets and thinking.“Where the hell is my bloody wallet?!”

REMEMBER, it’s a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll.

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