‘Til death or a bad memory do us part
My beloved wife Tai Tai often complains, quite unreasonably I think, about how under appreciated she feels. But a recent gaffe by an acquaintance of mine had her, for once, thanking her lucky stars that she married me back in the day when bankers actually paid some attention to their better halves.
I was at the Captain’s Bar with a good friend and his colleague, who was visiting the Hong Kong office for work.
Our visitor had a distinctive family name which jogged my memory as I recalled a charming lady whom I had met at a conference a couple of years ago with the same surname.
Considering how unusual this name was, I ventured to ask the guy if he was related to her. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “You must be mistaken — no one I know has this name as it’s just something I fashioned.”
I could have sworn the lady shared his name and probed further. I mentioned she had a senior position at a global bank and was even based in the same country as him. But the guy just looked at me blankly.
A couple of single malts later, however, he had a brainwave.
“Oh, I just remembered… I think that’s my wife you’re talking about,” he said sheepishly, apologising and blaming sleep deprivation for the memory lapse.
I looked at him in sheer disbelief. The breakneck pace and pressures of banking aside, there is no excuse for forgetting your wife’s name, and I dreaded to imagine his fate if she found out.
He looked mortified, though, so I consoled him with another round of drinks — ensuring he didn’t remember his slip-up later on.