My son beats me at our memory game. But I soon forget who wins

A card game reveals I’m not the finely tuned instrument of recall I once was

I’m struggling. I’m sure Marshall was in the top left square. I turn the tile and he stares back, but it is a different version of the furry fireman than I expected. My son swoops in to turn it over, before flicking his wrist with a victorious hoot, to reveal its twin elsewhere. I am distraught. My son pats my hand and tells me to keep going, which sharpens the sting immeasurably.

We’re playing a Paw Patrol memory game. Its rules are simple; place 24 pairs of images face down and turn them over two at a time. Find a match, and you withdraw those two cards to your own personal stash, otherwise you flip them both back over and your opponent takes their turn. In theory, every wrong effort adds more knowledge to your arsenal, as you build up a mental Rolodex of the slowly growing grid in front of you. The problem, in fact the existential horror unfolding before me, is that I find I can’t remember a bloody thing.