Having started with my first memory, I assumed that I would move on to the next. I faced a dilemma. I was not sure whether the memory I had was from actual recollection or from recollection of hearing the story from my mother, who frequently retold family mythology. This was mostly because one or other of us four siblings wanted to hear how another – more often than not me – got into trouble. Then everyone would laugh, though I very much doubt my parents did at the time.
Unreliable memories, as Clive James almost titled his autobiographical series. Talking this over with my sibs, on the most hilarious occasion over a couple of drinks after my Father’s funeral, they have quite varying accounts of the same family events; events where we were all present.
This is not an unusual or unknown phenomenon. In fact, it is the norm, as any Policeman or Detective will tell you. No two witnesses give the same description of a person or event. Unless they are conspirators, maybe.
So I am not going to run this in strict chronological order. My memory is far too shabby at this advanced age anyway. No apology for any confusion caused, it will only mirror my own.
not my life