An Elephant Never Forgets

Co-op shredded wheats and a pear.

Sometimes I worry about my memory. I hardly remember anything about being little, excepting instances of guilt, idiocy and a few bouts of illness. Specifically: pushing my sister (gently) down the stairs when I couldn't think of anything further to say and I realised I was advantageously placed (it was a short flight, I promise); shutting my fingers in the hinge of a door because I wanted to know how the hinge worked; shutting myself in the coal hole because I wanted to know how dark it was in there with the door completely closed (very); getting a part from a wind-up clock lodged in my nostril (necessitating a 6-7-hour round trip to Raigmore Hospital); and finally, being struck down with the measles at my Grandmother's house and her insisting that I wear a scarf on my head for weeks afterwards as she was worried I'd go deaf otherwise.

Other than that, I remember bizarre things like the round seat that was in the drawing room (evidently these are called "sociables") and my Great Grandmother's car. Or at least I thought I remembered this car, vividly, until I was describing it to my father the other day and he hadn't the foggiest idea what I was talking about; which brings me to this fascinating article I read in The Guardian today about the unreliability of memories.