I’m not good at remembering names.
It’s the bane of my work life.
I can chat quite happily to someone in the tearoom, or while waiting for the lift, over months. Then, suddenly find I’m working on a project with him or her, and know them, but have no idea what their name is. Or associate the wrong name with the wrong face and call them by the wrong name until someone gently points it that James isn’t James, he’s Zachary.
Sunday morning Sherylyn and I went to a lovely café for breakfast. The waiter came to take our order.
“Hello, Karen,” he said. “It is Karen, isn’t it?”
I recognised him. He worked in our IT department. We used to chat. He and his wife had welcomed their first baby (a girl), just before he left the company.
Name? Blank. I couldn’t remember his name.
We chatted about his work here at the café, about what had changed at my work. About other things.
His name was Mark, but I had to ask.
So if you and I ever meet at a conference, or anywhere, and I ask your name even if we have met before, bear with me. Just because I ask your name doesn’t mean I don’t know who you are. It just means I can’t remember your name.