A Worm Turning, by John Garland

John was the sort of man, ladies said, who filled them with an urge to straighten his tie for him, or to smooth down the tuft of hair which was always sticking up at the back of his head, no matter how recently he had combed it. Margaret was always doing this for him: it was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place. She also chose what trousers and socks he should put on; or rather, she had a way of glancing pointedly at what he had chosen for himself, so that he knew she would prefer him to wear something different. “I only want you to look nice, dear!” she would explain. She was always being helpful in other ways too; taking care that he didn’t eat or drink too much, and reminding him to be careful of his weight. She asked bright questions about how he was getting on at work, and suggested ways in which he might improve his chances of promotion. Sometimes when he was speaking she corrected him on minor points of grammar or pronunciation, or suggested that his friends had probably heard one of his favourite anecdotes already. She was also always brightly helpful in suggesting ways in which he could improve his hobbies, and would draw his attention to how much better the results were when he acted on his ideas.

          She herself wasn’t always completely happy with the way things turned out. At times she found him distinctly evasive about what he had been doing when she wasn’t there. It irritated her that he wouldn’t let her know his computer password, making some feeble excuse about “security” and she was suspicious of the way he closed down the screen when he heard her approach, when all she wanted to do was help him. There might even have been a faint trace of sarcasm in the way he proposed that it might save time if she laid out his clothes for him, valet-fashion, instead of waiting for him to dress and then disapproving of his choices. On the whole she didn’t feel that it was anything much to worry about; at least, not yet. Nevertheless, someone more sensitive than Margaret might have detected the subterranean rustlings of a worm finally turning

A Question of Memory, by Peter Morford.

I’m in my wife’s doghouse. The children’s attitude has changed from normal indifference to outright hostility and it’s not my fault.
The other day the head of our Department called us all into the meeting room to make an announcement.
“The Minister had authorised us all to attend a memory training course on Wednesday. A coach will pick us up at 8.30 and take us to the Conference Centre. Please bring a book and a pack of cards. I have no idea why. That’s all.”
Out he went, leaving us to speculate. Why cards? Why book?

**

At 9.55 we took our seats. 10 o’clock exactly a tall bald man stood before us. It was Mr Mnenomic, the memory man. He told us we were here to develop our minds. He asked us to stand up, one by one, to introduce ourselves. He then named three people to bring a pack of cards to the stage.
“I want you to shuffle your cards thoroughly, then, in turn to deal them on the table, face up. I will remember the order. Do not shuffle the cards again.”
“Thank you. Now will Mrs. Evans, Mr Trevor Jones and Miss Posselthwaite bring me their books. Open your book at random and let me read one page.”
He read silently.
“Thank you. We’ll have break for coffee. I’d like to circulate among you.”
In the next 20 minutes he managed to speak to each of us. He talked about books, the Test Match and Anderson’s 500 th wicket; the hurricanes in the USA and who knows what else. As you would expect, he greeted us each by name. You know what happened next. He called the cards in the right order forwards and backwards. He recited, with total accuracy, the pages he had read in each book.
He said “Thank you. I am not a magician. I’m not a genius. I’m just a man with a trained memory. It’s very useful. Knowledge is power. Your smartphones may provide the information you need – but it’s not much use to you if you forget what you’ve read. Now I’ll show how it’s done.”
He did.
We practised our new skills and we were amazed.
He said “I hope you are pleased with your progress. What you have learned today will stick – if you practise. We will now have dinner and have a brief session afterwards.”
Freddy Hughes said, “We’ll be late getting home.”
“Accommodation has been booked for you at this hotel and we’ll have a full session tomorrow.”
“But we weren’t told to bring overnight cases.”
“A change of clothes will be in your room. Everything will fit.”
It did.
My wife was not pleased when I phoned her.
“Jeremy’s Headmaster wants to see us about his behaviour. And Doctor Pearson is worried about Mother. And you’ve got a dental appointment at 8.30 and in the afternoon we’re going with the school outing to Alton Towers.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be.”
It was planned for tomorrow, but I had forgotten.