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Face-blindness is real: sometimes I can't recognise my mother

I was in line at Starbucks the other day when I decided to give my husband, Steve, a medical update. 'I made an appointment for my toenail fungus,' I said. The man standing next to me recoiled in horror. Why? Well, as it turns out, he was not Steve. He was just a tall, bald stranger with a Steve-esque posture. 'You're not my husband!' I said, as if he'd been trying to trick me. Then I beat a hasty retreat to the street. I make mistakes like this a lot, and until recently I thought I was a natural-born Mr Bean, fated to a life of excruciatingly embarrassing, occasionally hilarious mishaps. But after enrolling in a study on a whim, I recently discovered a less