Memories are Made of This. (Dean Martin)

Some of my readers will remember that I have been involved in an autobiographical work for some considerable time. Sixty thousand words later a torrent of words have become a dribble.

Now I honestly believe everything we have ever experienced is stored in our minds, for the human brain is cleverer than any computer. The problem is how to recall a lifetime's 'happenings'.

I have lived for well over twenty five thousand days, perish the thought. But how many of those days can I honestly recall. For someone who can rarely remember what he had for breakfast, quite a thought! In life's journey what do we actually remember.

We usually remember births (our children, not our own), weddings, funerals, serious illnesses, some holidays, and very occasional special days in a lifetime in employment. Schooldays, some at least stay in the mind though actual dates are often gone forever. We often remember 'firsts'. Our first television, new furniture (when poor and first married), and as we prospered, first and subsequent cars, houses and so on.

We remember days from decades; in my case the forties, fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties. (Strangely I remember less of the nineties.) We can often recall a day or days at the age of ten, twenty, thirty, forty and so on. (I often suggest to elderly groups who 'hire' me as a speaker that they all write a day in their life and publish it as a fundraiser, the end products often dwarfs my efforts.)

We sometimes remember great moments in history and exactly what we were doing at the time. The assassinations for instance of J F Kennedy and John Lennon. (I remember a school teacher coming into the class room and announcing that a man called Gandhi, of whom I had never heard had been assassinated in a country that I knew not of, called India. I suspect many of our most entrenched memories are the result of trauma.

Both my wife and I are ardent fans of Derby County and seldom miss a home game. (Please, no rude comments though messages of sympathy are acceptable.) Over the years I have probably watched nearly a thousand football matches. That would account for over 90,000 minutes of my life if my maths are right. (I was an English teacher, not maths!) Yet I remember one match in detail, at Wembley Stadium and bits and pieces of a few others. The details of whole seasons I cannot recall.

I have just had a wonderful relaxed, pleasant overnight stay in our motorhome in Castleton, Derbyshire. Weather, perfect, company, perfect, experience, perfect. As I said earlier I am absolutely sure such memories are stored in the mind forever more, but more important, will I be able to recall such a tiny part of my life in five years time. (For the religious amongst you, where do our memories go after we are dead?) Mine hopefully will in part be written down, but, realistically, from a cynical point of view, who else cares.

I kept a diary of sorts for one year as a child. (See blog dated Diary of an Adolescent, 1953 dated 11th April 2009.) I also kept a diary in far more detail for the year 1985. I'm no Samuel Pepys but it is of value to me in that it records unimportant details of my life that year. (It seems to be around 70,000 words long.) It also details for only the second time in my life what I did on given days. (It does not record every single day, even I recognise the sheer mundanity of my life at times.) But it is useful in showing the minuscule nature of daily life.

June 16th 1985

Woken at 5.00 am by children in an adjoining tent! On Saturday evening a family arrived complete with shining Mercedes.The camping field contained only four tents. Our new neighbours promptly pitched tent within feet of our tent! How strange is it that we are conditioned to live in close proximity to our neighbours. Are we therefore almost frightened of the wide open spaces offered! ( In actual fact, when the minor irritation of the close proximity wore off the family proved to be pleasant, outgoing neighbours.)

Skegness is again visited, fish and chips, that most staple of diets again sampled. We return home mid afternoon happy and relaxed. Who needs the Costa-Bravo!

Now, dear readers, what do you remember from your journey through life.

One, a memory from childhood.

Two, a memory that highlights for you a certain decade.

Three, something of world shattering importance.

Four, something of importance to you only.

Finally, a happy event you will remember forever.

There and Back to See how Far it is.

Do you remember the saying' There and back to see how far it is.' I wonder where it came from.

I was on holiday in Southwold recently. There I met a delightful man and his family. We chatted, as holiday makers do and he turned out to be, like myself, a football fan. Now I reckon I'm keen, but he far surpassed my dedication to Derby County. I noticed he had tattooed on his fingers letters that together spelt out the words TRUE BLUE, his love of Chelsea Football Club self evident. Even more remarkable was the large tattoo on his back. He was proud of his tattoo and showed it willingly, there presumably for all eternity. The name Chelsea and their post code for all to see. He was indeed a character, a very affable one and he lived on the Isle of Sheppey.

Many years ago, when lessons came to an end early (lesson plans, what's a lesson plan?) I had a pupil who rescued me many a time. He gave a touching rendering of 'Old Shep' that was far more moving than anything I had offered in the previous fifty minutes. The ending was guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of even the most street-wise.

'Old Shep he has gone

Where the good doggies go

and no more with old Shep will I roam

But if dogs have a heaven

There's one thing I know

Old Shep has a wonderful home.'

(Evidently you can get the lyrics of Old Shep as a ringtone. As Michael Caine would say 'Not a lot of people know that'!)

All this was in the seventies when Elvis Presley, who recorded Old Shep was particularly popular. (Walter Brennan's version is far more moving and probably influenced Elvis.) The day Elvis died is one of those dates in history that almost everyone can remember where they were when the news broke. (August 16th, 1977. I was at Chapel St Leonards at the time camping with my family.) Who could fail to remember such important moments in history.

Yet they also reckon most people remember where they were when both J F Kennedy and John Lennon were shot. I remember the Kennedy assassination yet have no recollection as to my whereabouts when John Lennon's demise unfolded.

A strange thing, memory. Many amongst us can remember what we were doing at the age of five, in some cases being over sixty years ago. Yet we have difficulty in remembering more than three items 'the wife' sent us to buy at the supermarket less than an hour ago. I once attended a funeral on the wrong day, went to the wrong church to attend a wedding, visited town on my bike and came home on the bus. (Not all on the same day!) Not that a sat nav or a computerised memory aid would have made much difference.

Sat navs, who needs them! I reckon we are on auto pilot in life, particularly when driving, for much of the time. (A year or so travelling north from Bath on a filthy black night, my wife and I had sat nav trouble; the darn thing refused to let us find the motorway. After what seemed for ever, the wind blowing a gale we arrived in a dark gloomy town. I wound my window down and shouted to one of the few people daft enough to be on the street. 'Gloucester?' I enquired quizzically. 'Cheltenham' he replied dismissively.)

I know little regarding Cheltenham. It has if I remember rightly an establishment for the education of young ladies, Cheltenham College that is highly regarded. I served as a teacher in a large comprehensive for many years. But it was certainly no Cheltenham. A public school yes, in that anyone could come, but an establishment of refinement, not really.

I have taught both in the secondary age sector and in adult education. In the latter I taught a young man, previously one of my school pupils. He had led a somewhat undisciplined life since leaving school, and had served a spell in prison. He was sentenced, amongst other things for hiding a policeman's helmet in a lively street altercation. I wonder what the charge was.

He once told me that 'he had run over a car.' 'What were you driving, a bulldozer' I asked with typical teaching ignorance. 'No,' he replied, exasperated at his former teachers stupidity. 'You know, ran over a car. Ran over, up onto the bonnet, over the roof and down the boot.' He was in my 'night school' class because he now realised the value of education and wished to 'better himself.'.

He too had a tattoo; plus it was on his back ; a tattoo and picture in large letters. Only he wasn't a Chelsea supporter. He had had this tattoo done when he was barely out of school. Now, some fifteen or twenty years later, with a wife and children, he was less than enamored with his tattoo.

He no longer went in the local swimming baths and certainly not with his children. At seventeen or so it had seemed a fun thing to do. His tattoo too will be there for ever and a day. And why is he less keen nowadays. I don't suppose too many people would like a large coloured butterfly and the words 'Butterflies Eat Shit' across their nether regions. Ah, the foolishness of youth. I wonder if my Chelsea friend will ever rue the day he had inscribed his support of Chelsea.