Last week I went through the whole of Thursday convinced it was Friday. It was only after posting an observation on Facebook ("... brought to you courtesy of Friday ponderings...") and having it queried by a good friend that I realised I was a day ahead of myself. It was already past noon by this stage.
Then on Wednesday just gone, I was convinced it was the eve of Saturday, and proceeded to plan - in my mind - what events were taking place (thankfully very few) that required my presence and/or attention over the weekend.
You can imagine how disappointed I felt when I realised, somewhere around three in the afternoon, that there were still two working days left. And I had a number of meetings and calls on both of them.
I suppose it is around this time in your life when you occasionally query whether poor genes will eventually get the better of you.
On my mother's side of the family there is a history of bad hips.
On my father's, senile dementia, prevalent in the female lineage.
So I guess I may someday end up going for a run, getting stuck, but being none the wiser. Or indeed just wondering why I am in the midst of Richmond Park wearing my knickers on my head, fairy wings and flip flops.
Microchip might be the answer. Must tell OH.