My wife Lisa said something funny the other day. “This man, I will never forget him . . . (long pause) . . . What was his name?”

Memory is such a strange, fickle thing. There are people who tell me in great detail about something I said on the ABC more than 20 years ago, of which I have no recollection. I can’t even remember half the music I’ve played. I was listening to the radio the other day and an orchestral piece came on. I thought, “That’s quite pretty, I wonder who wrote that?” The announcer said, “That was Blue Mountains by Henry Krips, conducted by Guy Noble.”

Photo © Kelly Sikkema/Unsplash

It is unfortunate that many of the memories that are seared into my brain, like griddle marks on a steak, are related to low-level humiliation. Take the time I was on a school excursion and we went to the beach for a swim. I forgot I hadn’t changed into my swimmers and pulled my shorts down to reveal the baggiest white undies I owned. The howls of derision from my friends still echo in my ears.

The time I got the Headmaster’s Award for a book review,...