“...oh God, what’s his name? The baldy guy?”

IT IS Saturday afternoon. I join my husband and a small group of friends who have gathered around a café table in town.

I sit down. It seems they have been discussing whether fame and social graces are mutually exclusive phenomena. The man on my right has the gleam of old, old stories in his eyes. He’s recalling his brief stint in furniture removals, London.

“There was one guy we did a job for - oh God - whatshisname, you know him... famous English comedian... whatshisnameagain... anyway,” he says, “he was a right rude bastard.”

“Ben Elton?” someone says. We all get ready to dislike Ben Elton, the right rude bastard.

“No, not him... another cockney guy... oh God it’s going to drive me mad now trying to remember his name...”

“Oh,” I say, “the one who does the pub-landlord sketch... whatshisname, baldy guy, drinks pints on stage?

“No, not him...” “...Oh God, what’s his name?” my husband asks, “the baldy guy?”

“Can’t remember,” furniture-man says, “but the one I’m talking about used to play this character... oh Christ what was it again... Loadsamoney!”

“I’m sure his real name begins with ‘H’...” furniture man says.

None of us find that “H” helps at all with the business of retrieving the right rude bastard’s actual name.

Cognitively, we’re completely constipated, and stare at each other, looking, I fear, a bit simple.

“Anyway,” furniture man resumes, “we turned up with the removals van at ten to nine ... this Loadsamoney bloke opened the door and fecked us out of it for arriving early, screamed: ‘Come back in ten minutes’ like a psycho, and slammed the door in our faces.”

It’s hard to be appalled by the manners of someone whose name and identity have not been supplied. We simulate a muted tut-tut but frankly we’re all too busy trying to remember the baldy guy’s name, the right rude bastard’s name and have rather lost the point and purpose of the conversation.

The mean age of the group is about 46, an age demographic for which name-recollection is a matter of some urgency; at 46, incipient Alzheimer’s is a genuine concern. At 46, not only are you battling real or imagined Alzheimer’s, you’ve also arrived by some curious logic at the decision that it can be staved off by making a tortuous effort to winch whatever crucial details you’ve forgotten out of your brain, even if it kills you.

“And there was a super-model we shifted stuff for,” furniture man continues, “Danish... lovely girl, so polite... oh Christ, I forget her name now but you’d know her... she went out with... oh God whatshisname...”

“Al Murray!” my husband exclaims, slapping the table smugly.

He leans back, drinks his coffee; now he’s closer to staving Alzheimer’s off than the rest of us, he can afford to relax.

“I know the model you mean,” I say to furniture man, “I can see her... green eyes, brunette.”

“Adrian Edmonson!” a man shouts.

“Catch up. We’re on the super-model now,” I say, “not the right rude bastard.”

“Well I’m still on the right rude bastard.” “No, it’s not Adrian Edmonson,” says furniture man, “I told you, his name’s got an “h” in it...

“I can see the supermodel’s face,” I say, “God this is so annoying.”

“I know... anyway, she had no airs or graces at all... she made us all a cup of tea and sat down with us. “And we did a removal for that Scottish actor, the one from Trainspotting... oh for crying out loud, what was his name...”

“Robert Carlyle?” “No, the other Scot - anyway, we had to move his girlfriend out of her flat, into his. He was grand but her - I’ve never met such an almighty ...”

I finish my coffee, get up. “Harry Enfield,” I say jangling car keys. “Yes!” furniture man says, “that was the bastard’s name.”

But I’m utterly disconsolate, staring down the barrel of my own dementia in fact, for it’s just dawned on me that I can’t remember where I’ve parked my car.