In the era of information overload is it surprising that we struggle to focus?

Thami Sukazi sat at his desk, working, a pen in his hand. At some point, he realised that he didn't have the pen anymore. He is adamant that at no point did he stand up and leave his desk. And there was no other soul in the house. He looked for it everywhere but never found it.

So he did what any sensible person would do: he took the matter to Facebook. Could anyone explain the mystery of the missing pen? he inquired. Had an extraterrestrial ship landed in the greater Centurion area and sent one of its alien occupants to hypnotise him and jack his Bic ballpoint? Did he zone out and ingest it in a stupor? So many questions, so little time.

As genuinely intrigued and a little spooked as Thami seemed, most of his Facebook friends made light of his conundrum and accused him of good ole procrastination.

I have a different theory. It can be summed up thus: like sand through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives. Let me explain myself. Several years ago, I shared in this very space how often I walk purposefully into the kitchen with the intention of fetching ... something ... whatchamacallit ... er, what did I want to get now ...? And then I'll stand there with a stupefied look, parted lips trying to remember what I wanted to get.

Most of the time I end up pouring myself a double of Gentleman Jack because ... well, you can't go wrong with whisky. It's usually only when I walk back to my workstation that I remember that my sinuses are acting up and that I went to get some Allergex. But bugger, can you take Allergex when you're having a double bourbon? So I'll log on to the internet to check this out.

After 20 minutes of checking out La Liga scores, the ATP tennis rankings and the name of the actor who co-starred with Brad Pitt in Troy, I'll try to remember why I'm on Google in the first place. Followed by a blank stare. And the realisation that I probably need a refill of my Jack. Only after I come back to my desk with a fresh double will I suffer a sneezing fit, which reminds me, oh yes, the Allergex.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? When I penned that column years ago, my explanation was the early onset of senility. I have since changed my mind because I believe that the inability to allow the ingress of new information to change one's opinions makes one an impregnable fortress of stupidity. OK, that's just fancy talk for "I'm an incorrigible flip-flopper".

Anyway, I now believe that what happened to my friend Thami can be explained by a study conducted a few years ago by a Dr Martin Hilbert and his team at the University of Southern California. They calculated that the average individual with access to the internet consumes data equivalent to reading 174 newspapers every day.

Each person also produces between six and seven newspapers' worth of information a day, which is roughly a 200-fold increase from just 24 years ago. I must hasten to add that this information is a few years old already and that these figures are likely to have skyrocketed even more.

These are staggering numbers. Hilbert doesn't think the numbers are all that impressive. He's got a doctorate and everything but I think he's smoking something. How can a species increase information consumption exponentially without it affecting how our brains function?

I know that anecdotal evidence can never trump scientific research, but I think that my brain is the victim of hectic information overload. I cannot count the number of offramps I miss because I'm driving on autopilot while pondering all the rubbish I'm bombarded with.

I appreciate that in my line of work I need to keep on top of matters of national and international importance but jislaaik, it's too much! Is it absolutely necessary that I know everything going on at Eskom, SAA, in Syria, Russia, Qatar, Yemen, at KPMG, Steinhoff, Cogta, VBS, SARS, McKinsey, Saxonworld, HIV, BDMS or whatever else is topical that day?

I think it's only a matter of time until the useless gunk in my head finally pushes out any memory of what my home address is and I'll end up driving around in circles for hours. In all likelihood, I won't be able to call Mrs N to help out because I will have forgotten her name.