Memories – the Prologue

For the next two weeks I have gathered together some small remembrances of times that have gone and I will be sharing them with you. 

Memories are curious things; when we have them they are imperfect and when we lose them we lose much of what makes us human. The empty staring eyes fo folk who have lost their memory are haunting to those of us that have not lost them.
Ten years ago I entered a ward in a hospital in Wales which housed (and drugged) old folk who had almost no memories. The doctors could only dose, not cure and perhaps the doses were large to enable the folk housed in the ward, in their living deaths, more manageable to be cared for.

One old lady, probably not older than I am now, looked at me. I smiled at her. Encouraged she asked me if I was her son. My answer disappointed her. She had asked so politely and with so much hope that I felt that I had done wrong when i answered truthfully.

When we exercise our memories in the company of those who were there when those memories were created, we find that we remember events slightly differently from one and another. I do not remember what i have said, but sometimes other do remember my words, often spoken casually and now analysed thoughtfully.

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?

Mr Belloc’s words explain it all but one thing: who was Tarantella?

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