The one single thing that would enhance my life no end would be some AI facial-recognition implanted in my head. You know, the kind of device the police are increasingly using to identify people in public places.

Really, as something of a libertarian, I should be strongly opposed to such a thing but I say “bring it on!”

They say “out of sight, out of mind,” but the trouble for me is that even when people are in my sight, they’re completely out of my mind.

But I’m in good company. Last week Joanna Lumley talked about suffering from the same condition I apparently have: prosopagnosia.

An example from less than ordinary life. In April, I spent Pesach with parents and 500 Charedim in a kosher-for-Passover hotel in Spain.

We were allocated dining seats on a large table with three other families for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Everyone had the same place at the table for the duration and it wasn’t until we’d got almost to the end that I realised the man opposite didn’t have a new partner every day, but that his wife had a lot of wigs.

As for Charedi men, the best I can do is to narrow them down to a few categories such as “tall”, “small”, “fat”, “thin”, “small beard”, and “werewolf.”

Occasionally, I might mentally tag one as Goldilocks.

I mean, I used to think people just mysteriously disappeared for eternity once I’d annoyed them for the 20th time by not remembering them.

I’d think to myself, “Gee, whatever happened to that whatserface woman who kept having a go at me for not recognising her? Haven’t seen her for months.”

Or: “That’s strange, yet another person who’s moved from the area.”
Not true. According to friends, Whatserface was still living in the neighbourhood — and giving me evils every time I ignored her at the school gates or sailed past her on the high street.

Perhaps all the people I pass in my local neighbourhood are my forgotten victims, an army of faceless people seething with quiet, menacing rage that one day we could be having a meaningful chat, hugging as we said goodbye, and the next day I would blank them.

Oh, there have been so many awkward moments. There was the time I was invited out for dinner with a couple and their family and I mistook two young men for the couple’s sons.

First I launched myself at them with bear-hugs and showered them with kisses. Then, I firmly pumped their hands, while slowly registering the bewildered, and slightly frightened, looks on their faces.

A few minutes later, into the restaurant walked the actual sons of the couple and I had to try, through my burning cheeks, to duplicate the same overly enthusiastic greeting. As well as try to maintain the manic over-friendliness to the complete strangers I had accosted earlier on.

I’ve walked past my boyfriend many times. Luckily he knows my condition and comes after me with a loud, “Er, excuse me… Don’t you know me from somewhere?” Maybe I haven’t been ghosted by men all these years. Maybe I’m the ghost.

Once, a teenage girl walked towards me, smiling. What a lovely youngster I thought to myself, so sweet and friendly. I walked on by, smiling to myself.

She grabbed my arm and shouted, “Mum!” Yes, I’d walked past my own daughter.

I’ve tried warning new friends that I may not recognise them when we next meet, but not to take it personally. Some have joked that they’ll pull a grotesque face when they see me so I’ll know it’s them.

Seems a good idea? It isn’t. It’s a terrible idea. Now I just think that everyone pulling a grotesque face is someone I’m supposed to know.

Don’t think it’s a compliment if I do recognise you. Probably just means you’re warty, weird, or have a limb missing. Recently I went to meet a friend who has a prosthetic leg at the V&A cafe. Every woman could be her.

I scanned people’s legs, looking for someone with just the one, hoping she’d taken it off as she often does when sitting. Luckily, she waved me over.

Embarrassing, but not as excruciating as the time I tried to take the wrong child home from school.

Thank goodness the infant knew their own parent.