Roger Rabbits with Jim Bunny

I’m going to get myself “self-trespassed”, slapped with a self-imposed exclusion order which is often the preserve of problem gamblers.

Except, in my case, it would be for compulsive shopping, or oniomania. Just swap out ‘casino’ for ‘supermarket.’

I’m putting it out there because there’s no stigma. Well, less stigma. I am told oniomania is perhaps the most fashionable addiction, or socially acceptable addiction.

Because we are all consumed by consumerism – all the advertising tells us buying up will make us happy.

But I’m not happy about being in thrall to supermarkets. Yep, every time I walk into the supermarket, the check-outs all gleefully sing “ka-ching, gotcha again”.

Countdown uniforms are smiling at me. They know they have got me by the b… well, debit card.

But this has nothing to do with the duopoly’s alley cat cunning – nothing to do with whacky promotions, discounts or product placement.

It has everything to do with my forgetfulness and very bad supermarket discipline.

I can walk into the supermarket for half a dozen eggs, and walk out eggless   because I have forgotten them. But I will still have spent $150. Do that a couple of times a week - ouch! I am addicted to the supermarket experience; I love ferreting around for things I want rather than things I need.

I don’t see toilet rolls, I see large dark brown Greek Kalamata olives with the smooth meaty texture. I don’t see a loaf of sliced white, I see Castello blue. I don’t see a litre of milk, I see a cheeky Pepperjack cabernet sauvignon. And I don’t see beef mince on special, I see Bluff oysters. I have a rather wide and expensive blind spot.

Ok – I hear you. Write a list. But when I realise I need half a dozen eggs, I tell myself I don’t need a list, surely I can remember one thing. A list is a number of connected items written down – so you can’t have a list of one thing. And I would forget where I put my list. Even when I need just half a dozen eggs I will always grab a trolley. You feel naked in a supermarket without a trolley. And it screams to be filled up.

Besides - my friend, Lemonade Lady, says being pragmatic is not always best practice. She orders her groceries online to save time, money and effort. “But I always forget something and have to go to the supermarket anyway. Defeats the purpose.”

And a colleague who ‘winged it’ - went to the supermarket without her usual note, got the ‘essentials’ – the blue cheese and mushrooms for a delicious sauce – but forgot everything else and had to make a second trip. 

I have done some memorable forgetting in my time. Can you forget memorably?

Like when I invited half a dozen of my best and dearest to a slap-up Friday night scoff. I was the only one who didn’t turn up. I forgot my own dinner party. But I didn’t forget one snubbed guest phoning from my own darkened door step to call me a “rude unforgivable prick”.

It was the irritatingly entertaining Giles Brandreth – the Pommy broadcaster, writer and former politician – that prompted all this. He was on TV explaining his own forgetfulness. He goes upstairs, and when he gets here, he can’t remember why he’s gone upstairs.

So now he attaches an old fashion tape recorder to the arm of his stair lift – the   seat a challenged person sits on to ride upstairs. Then presses the record button – and says “I am going upstairs to...” do whatever. When he arrives upstairs, he plays the message back to himself. He doesn’t make wasted trips upstairs anymore.

We can all relate. I have often charged off down two flights of stairs to the garage only to forget what I have gone for. I stand there raging, beating myself up with a string of profanities that even violates the cats’ sensitivities and has the neighbours ignoring me. “Foul mouthed forgetter” they’ll be thinking. To make the trip worthwhile, I put on a load of washing, sweep the garage floor or decontaminate the gym bag, which is always a joy.

Then I regenerate a few brain cells and charge the memory by doing a crossword and chucking some tin around at the gym. But even that doesn’t help me recover a name that’s just suddenly disappeared without trace into the fog of an aged and fragile mind. Even the names of people I know best just desert me when I need them most, and they become mononymous “mate.”

I knew a woman who would forget a name but remember their licence plate number. “Here’s… umm DZ507!” How does that work.

Forgetfulness is frustrating but funny.