Addled Aids.

There are many excellent aids to memory. One of the oldest is to tie a piece of string round your thumb. When you look at your thumb, you are instantly reminded that there is something you should have remembered. Failing in this you try to recollect where you put your note-book in which you wrote why you tied the string on your thumb. Then you rack your brain to remember which suit you were wearing when you made the note in your book about the string on your thumb. Then you sit biting your finger nails until you remember that it's Friday, which is an unlucky day for nail-biting. Thought of bad luck reminds you that your aunt Tightwad is coming to stay for a fortnight. That reminds you that you have to meet her at the train at four-thirty-unless Providence intercedes. And that reminds you why you tied the string round your thumb; which proves how efficient this aid to memory is.

There are other methods just as reliable. You can remind yourself by wearing only one sock. When your foot becomes so numbed that you can't feel it you're sure to see if it's still in your boot. If that doesn't do the trick, you'd better have your foot amputated at the ankle. Other methods are to wear your coat inside out or your trousers upside down. In extreme cases you can go to business in V's; by the time your relatives have bailed you out you will have had plenty of time to remember.

Involuntary mental suggestion is a valuable aid to memory. The sight of a haupuka in a fishmonger's show-case may remind you that your cousin Blott is getting married on Thursday. The five o'clock siren may prompt you to remember the baby's medicine. A pneumatic road drill may remind you of an appointment at the dentist's, and an advertisement of The Prisoner of Zenda that it is your wedding anniversary on the thirteenth.

Science has supplied many memory aids. I received a letter the other day from a man who offered an absolutely reliable and unavoidable contrivance with which you couldn't forget even the things you hated to remember. He offered it at absolutely no cost or obligation, except that you buy a memory course in seven volumes at twelve pounds ten, by instalments. But I figured that if I could remember to pay the instalments I wouldn't need the course, and if I couldn't remember to pay the instalments the course wouldn't be any good. So I wrote offering to sell him a course on how to forget. He probably knows, for he hasn't replied.

There used to be a little book entitled “Where is It?” in which you noted where things were. But it failed because it was only in one volume. There should have been another entitled, “Where is the ‘Where is It'?”