It did happen.
I found a new room – because of a housemate in a previous place behaving like a complete a-hole. I saw it with C, and decided to get the room. I packed all my stuff in the country – two large backs, a backpack, and plastic bags for two friends to carry in their hands. I and the friends took the stuff, and walked to the new address, perhaps 10-15 minutes walk from the old one.
What happened was I forgot which floor I lived on.
I had fever – donʻt know why, and never had it researched the reason – and that may have influenced my head feeling a lot stuffier. So I stood there on the third floor with Maria and Angela, and had this weird feeling. What floor did I live on now? Second? Third? Fourth? I had a vague memory it was on the left side.
And the thought of just trying my new key to see it fit was too bizarre. Or ringing the doorbell, “excuse me, do I live here?” I didnʻt remember what my new housemates looked like either, and it was a safe bet the other floors had just regular families living there.
So I called C. “Hey… do you remember which floor I live on now?” “I think itʻs on the third floor?” was his guess. So I rang the doorbell, asked – and it was the correct floor.
That happened in January 1998. Before my eye surgeries.