Thanks for the Mammories

And, like Lady Macbeth, I need to out some damned spots, so I’ll give you something less graphic to read…

I wish I had a better memory. Not for everything, because, let’s face it, some things are just too nasty to replay. But for names, faces, people, some events. I can’t remember my first kiss. Just can’t. I can’t remember everything about the night I met Neen. (It was in a nightclub where I worked on the door- she was carrying a baseball bat with nails stuck in it- long story- it involves lots of tequila and me proposing to her using a flier and my eye-liner pencil. It was the 80’s, ok?)

I can’t remember many things. Some people can. Neen has a word-perfect recall for TV shows and conversations. Particularly conversations where I say something cruel and unusual. Mea Culpa. My older brother, who manages the oldest restaurant in London has a perfect memory for the most obscure TV personality- ‘HEY! That’s Lindon Twiblet- don’t you remember? He was the midget third from the left in Blake’s Seven episode 4b!” It’s his job to make sure ‘celebrities’ are observed, acknowledged and butt-kissed.

So some people remember words, some, faces and names. I remember weird useless stuff, like the way my best friend’s house when I was five smelled like geraniums, or entire advertising jingles from the seventies. Do I want to have those things playing in a loop in my head? NO!!! I want lovely thoughts.

I wish I could leave you with a cheerful quote, but I can’t remember the source. It’s either Woody Allen or Billy Connolly. (Just try it in different accents, maybe you can figure it out!):

(On bumping into someone)
Hmmm, yeees, I remember your name, but your face escapes me…