Um, I don’t quite know how to even approach this. By definition, writing about what I don’t remember is… tricky. I don’t remember my first steps. I don’t remember much about my time at infant school or junior school. I have pockets of memories, including one from a playgroup near home, an image of being in the group, but it’s fleeting and vague. There’s a memory of a fire alarm going off at school, possibly infant school, and of being on the school field, whilst the little group that was making cakes came out.
It’s entirely possible that every last thought, every last memory, is fully intact, in some strand of my grey matter, but it’s not accessible. We’re talking about decades, not years, and time blurs things. I may even be misremembering, or blending memories together, distorting the picture of what I think I recall.
Our memories are fleeting, and back when I was growing up, we didn’t have smartphones, or cameras in every pocket, to record every moment. We can now capture absolutely everything, which can be good and bad. There is no escaping what we do, but equally, it’s harder to forget when we have visual and written cues, all around us. The drawback is that we maybe don’t think for ourselves, and remember for ourselves, as much as we should.