ABSTRACT
I can remember when I still had a good memory. I was in my mid-30s. I remember that time because I was spending a sabbatical year abroad. I was beginning to write a memory text and had no difficulty remembering appropriate experiments, readily coming up with names of authors, and dates and places of publication. My host, who was about 10 years older, warned me that it would not be too long before all that started to change. He was right. A few years later I would confidently reach for the name of an investigator I knew well and find nothing there, although I could happily tell you where he worked and all about him. The first signs of ageing? Well, not quite the first. As an enthusiastic but untalented rugby player I was already past the age at which most of my more talented colleagues had hung up their boots. However, I continued to play for a good few years, compensating for declining speed by an increase in low cunning. By trundling towards the point at which I anticipated play would break down, I often managed to arrive at the same time as my fitter, younger colleagues, who no doubt got used to my occasional sallies in the wrong direction when I made a wrong guess.
