IDENTITY should be easy. I think I know who I am. Age, date of birth, shoe size, number of children, name of wife, all are readily available most of the time.

The deeper past is within grasp too, or at least the big bits with easy-to-read labels. Born Bristol, fell out of upstairs bedroom window aged three; family camping holidays in France - two adults, three children, one green Mini van; further raised south of Manchester (no more problems with windows); attended local grammar school; student in London at Goldsmiths' College; parents divorced; worked in the capital for nine years; married in Leeds in 1987 (hope I've remembered that one right); moved to York in 1988, shortly after birth of first child - two more followed (all three birthdays chalked up on mental wall).

But what if none of these mundane facts were available? What if everything were a vacuum sucked of all memory? Such is the living blankness afflicting the mystery Briton stuck in Canada with no clue to his identity. The man was hit on the head nearly 20 months ago and now suffers from amnesia. He is thought to be a Briton and goes under the name of Philip Staufen. This is the name he gave in 1999 to the Toronto hospital that treated him for the cranial injury. No one knows if that is his real name.

The only clues to his identity are connected to language. His accent is described as British "public school" and is said to have a possible hint of Yorkshire. He is a linguist, speaking French and Italian, while also reading Latin. Put together Yorkshire and public school and you could well come up with, say, Ampleforth. Then again, this could account for nothing. And why would anyone remember Latin? Once learned, easily forgotten, or so thinks this owner of a very dusty Latin O-level. Amo, amas... a what?

Mr Staufen has now gone on hunger strike in protest at what he sees as the Canadian government's indifference to his plight. He has not eaten for more than a week in a bid to force the authorities to give him a passport. His earlier attempts to publicise his nameless fate have been fruitless, so now he is anxious to carry on the search himself.

"Finding yourself" is mostly a luxury to be urged by highly-paid therapists. Yet Mr Staufen's literal lack of self-knowledge is locking him away. His lawyer quotes him as saying: "I am a prisoner. I have been a prisoner for almost two years now. Why can't it wait? One can live a lifetime in a day. I have no more days to waste."

Without any knowledge of who we are, we become no one at all. To have all the accumulations of a life, all the pleasures and pains, joys and disappointments, big moments and small details, erased in a moment is a cruel fate.

AS ROBERT Thompson and Jon Venables face a nervous future under assumed names, dreading disclosure every day, much attention has been given to their case. Opinion splits down the middle, with liberals embracing rehabilitation, while others passionately decry the release of the boys who killed Jamie Bulger.

Much space continues to be given to Denise Fergus, Bulger's mother, whose suffering has become national property.

Such focus is understandable up to a point, but it is also exploitative, encouraging this poor woman to keep alive her agony as a common touchstone of horror.

It is important that hers is not the only voice to be heard, especially when Denise Fergus fans the vigilantes by saying: "They may think they can hide. I know no matter where they go someone out there is waiting."

Taken to its grisly conclusion, this is a call for Thompson and Venables to face the vengeance of the lynch mob.

Would such an outcome truly make a dreadful situation any better?

Can't see it at all myself.