I MUST have one of those unforgettable faces.

And while that can either be a good thing or bad thing, it can also be very sobering and poignant.

Late last year my wife’s uncle began losing his battle with the onset of dementia and had to be moved into a care home.

Because he had never married and had no children, he had suddenly became isolated in his home in Bristol, with only members of the extended family living nearby.

So we decided to move him closer to us in Swindon.

He has a name: Gordon, but as anyone with experience of relatives with dementia will understand, he is not the Gordon we once knew.

More to the point, he is not the Gordon who once knew us.

Gord (as I got to call him) is easy to describe, because he always reminded us of Norman Wisdom: a small, smiley, kind man, with a lovely sense of humour, whom it was always a pleasure to see.

He was naturally closest to his two sisters: Doreen (my mother-in-law) who died 20 years ago, and Joan, who lives in Didcot.

He visited both regularly, went on trips and holidays with them, and became a truly great great uncle when a new generation came along.

Relatives in Bristol saw him a lot too, but his closest family were the key to Gord’s life, even though they lived away.

Sadly, in the last few months, with the disease advancing rapidly, his sense of that family has all but disappeared.

When we visit him, we ask him to dig deep for memories of his past life and family members, dead or alive.

But they don’t come.

I asked him for the number of the shop he worked in in Swindon Railway Works, but he didn’t know.

If he has any memory of his past life at all, in fact, it no longer shows on his face and he is unable to turn it into words.

And he can’t remember or understand who his sister, nieces or great nieces/nephews are.

The family is a blur, but with one exception.

One person, who has been in the family for less than half his life and who you might think would be one of the first to be forgotten, is still present — and that person is me.

On the last several visits, he hasn’t been able to remember my wife’s name, but for some reason he remembers mine. He even remembers to call me ‘Gray’, which he always did, rather than use my full name.

We can only assume that he has retained some recollection of the conversations we used to have about football.

In his younger days, we would always pull his leg about the teams he supported, because although in his heart he was always a Swindon Town fan, he once had a season ticket for watching deadly rivals Bristol City.

We would never let him forget it, whenever we saw him, but now we can’t make him remember.

Not only have Bristol City been wiped from his memory, but also Swindon Town, and although we still talk to him about football, we doubt that he really understands even what football is any more.

Unexpectedly, undeservedly and illogically, my face and my name are effectively the last things connecting him with his past, real life.

And if I am to come to terms with this situation, I had better be quick.

This terrible disease is cruel and relentless, and there are already signs that I am about to slip from his mind, too.

The dementia hasn’t won its race yet, but we have entered the home straight.