Last week I lost a whole day out of my life. I don't mean "lost" as in lost a day's pay or lost a day's work, but lost as in have no recollection of, can't find, mislaid.

The day in question was Wednesday and I didn't realise I'd lost it till I was having a drink with a friend at the weekend.

"So how was your week?" she asked after giving me a day-by-day account of her toil and troubles.

I remembered Monday exactly: I'd been to a dinner in London; Tuesday I came back from London; Thursday was my birthday; Friday I had lunch in Hove . . . but what about Wednesday?

I couldn't remember anything about Wednesday. It was if Wednesday had never existed, vanished without trace. What could have happened to me during those lost hours?

Did I go out? Stay in? Did I meet anybody? If so, who? Did I enjoy the day?

Or did something so traumatic occur - something so unspeakable that I'd simply erased those 24 hours from my memory?

Perhaps I'd been caught up in a time warp and skipped a day, or been temporarily abducted by aliens.

"Sorry," I said. "My mind's a blank."

Inside I was panicking. So this is it, I thought, the onslaught of old age.

Isn't memory loss one of the precursors of senility? How long before I'm only allowed to go out wearing a name and address tag round my neck?

But then I did remember something - I've always had a bad memory. Unless I write everything down, I forget it.

So, the answer to my whereabouts on Wednesday would surely lie at home, in my diary.

Now, don't get me wrong. I just jot down appointments - I'm not one of those people who boast about keeping a journal, faithfully recording anything and everything that ever happens to them, however tedious, every day.

I know several people who do, including The Mother. She only has to refer to her library of diaries and she can tell you exactly what she was doing on the evening of June 7, 1986, or March 6, 1993 - and what the weather was like at the time.

When I got home I checked my diary. There was absolutely nothing noted for Wednesday, February 2.

There was only one thing for it. I called The Mother. "Could you have a peep in your diary?", I asked. "Remind me what I did on Wednesday."

"Wednesday," said The Mother without hesitation, "was the day you lost the trout."

Lost the trout . . . Oh, wake me up please, I thought. This is all too surreal to be anything but a bad dream.

And then I experienced total recall. It was as if the curtain had been lifted on a brightly-lit stage.

I had bought two fresh trout at a fishmonger's in Brighton. Then I'd caught a bus home.

It was only when the grill pan was ready and waiting that I realised the trout were not. They, I knew, could only be in one place, doing the rounds on a number 5B.

I called my friend: "Hey, guess what? I've just found Wednesday!"

But then, all things considered, I thought, it might be best to lose it again. Those trout must be getting a bit whiffy by now.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.