Saturday, 11 July 2015

A very interesting number, 73

I was musing about memory, and memories, and it’s occurred to me that celebrating the day of your actual physical birth, which you probably can’t remember, is pretty meaningless.  What counts is when you first became aware, which you can only construe as your earliest memory.  I was nearly three when I helped my father to hang out the huge Union Jack over the front garden to celebrate the end of the War.  (He couldn’t have done it without me.)  So I’ll be just over seventy next week!

There may be a flaw in this approach.  If there is, please don’t tell me.


  1. My mother was quite disapproving when I said I couldn't remember living at the hotel in Weymouth and only had a couple of specific memories of that time. My sister stuck up for me, pointing out that I was only three when we left. I think you're right - not that I know the date of my earliest memories, but they mean more to me than the day of my birth, which I really can't remember at all.

  2. I was 22 when I started becoming aware

  3. Who was it who said "age is not important; unless you are a cheese"?

  4. I became aware of the sixties so I can't have been there.
    But actually sitting on the clifftop at Fishermen's Walk watching my brother's skiffle group & being allowed to sometimes scrape the washboard was an early one, though by no means the first.

  5. Z, your early memories are pretty good, as I recall. (Blog a few more of them when you can, please.)

    Rog - so that would make you, what, 35?

    Liz, I like it! But I can't decide whether to be a pecorino romano or a mozzarella...

    Richard - you must have been more than three then! I'm surprised our parents let you out with reprobates like me, though.
    And that's Fisherman's Walk, btw. Just the one of them (though I don't remember ever seeing a single fisherman there).