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.