Ageing

I used to have a photographic memory. One glance at one of the thousands of pictures in my archives and I could tell you the name of the horse, his owner’s name, his parents, and his entire pedigree.

Lately I have been catching myself gazing at a photo and asking myself: “who the hell is this horse?”, before reaching for the back of the photo in the hope of finding a handwritten note. I guess it’s called ageing. I thought it would never happen.