An Inconspicuous Man, by Peter Morford.

It was raining hard and the few people on Oxford Street pushed past each other for shelter in shops and cafes. Nobody had time to notice the small man in a hoodie as he walked hurriedly east towards Tottenham Court Road underground station. He felt the dampness seeping onto his shoulders and knew he should have brought his umbrella. But, he thought, who in a hoodie would carry an umbrella? He would have been noticed and Walter did not
want that. Or be remembered until…
   He sheltered in the entrance to a department store and on a whim, went in. He found himself in the Men’s Department where he wandered for a few moments. He had no wish to spend any money now, for what would have been the point? He went back into the street. He felt disorientated. Should he turn left or right? He always lost his sense of direction when he came out of shops or cinemas.
   “Excuse me, could you direct me to Tottenham Court Road?” he asked a plump woman, laden with shopping bags.
   “No I can’t. I’m a visitor. I go by taxi.”
He stopped a man. “Get yerself a map,” he said, rushing away. The man in the hoodie felt a surge of anger. One useless woman, one rude boar of a man; that’s the sort of people he had to deal with. He gently pressed his midriff and felt something firm and reassuring there.
   He suddenly remembered the way and carried on walking. And when he got to Tottenham Court Road, he turned back because his real destination was to be Oxford Circus. He knew it would be crowded by hundreds of people who would soon know his secret. And a few, perhaps many, who would never know. He smiled to himself, feeling the power.
   Arriving, he stood still, just watching. Inconspicuous. A man minding his own business.
   Those going out to the street dithered with their umbrellas and got in the way of the crowd coming in. A big man under a golf umbrella shouted, “Make way, make way,” and people actually did stand aside for him as he shook the water over anyone close enough to deserve it.
   Walter sneered at the spectacle. These people would have something else to worry about very soon. He would show no mercy as he waited for the right moment to show them who had the real power. He was checking his belt again when he felt the vibration over his heart. He unzipped his parka, then his cardigan, and got to the phone just as it started to ring loudly.
   A shrill voice. “Where are you Walter? Have you lost your way again? I’ve been waiting here ten minutes. You’re supposed to meet me here for afternoon tea!”
   “Coming mother!” he said as he lost his signal and searched for his Oyster Card to scan at the barrier.
   Mrs Mitty hated her son to be late on his birthday.

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.