I can’t remember her last name, but she left an indelible mark on me.

We were at university, in student digs, and one day I poured my heart out to her - boyfriend troubles no doubt. The words just tumbled out – no filter, no fear, no shame – afterwards, I felt as light as a feather. I had purged my soul. I had never experienced anything like it before, or since, for that matter. Her first name was Alison. She had mousy brown curly shoulder-length hair, and a gentle, intelligent, freckly face. 

Why do some memories last, and others fade away? Like the day I fell out with my best friend at school, she tried to drown me in the local swimming pool, as a joke; - or that Bonfire Night in 1975, 8 years old, when my uncle stole up behind me during the fireworks.  Michel de Montaigne was right, “Nothing prints more lively in our minds than something we wish to forget.” 

It frustrates me that I can’t remember her last name, but I am grateful for the memory of Alison. 

As time passes, thoughts of my late mum resurface. 

She was a domineering, bossy woman, the eldest of 13 children.  

She complained all the time, I can imagine why now, but growing up she drove me crazy, and we argued non-stop. 

My mum was general secretary of a local community association, so always raising money for charity, organising outings, and galvanising people to a cause. She also worked full-time as a domestic supervisor in a psychiatric hospital, before retraining as a classroom assistant for autistic children, whilst raising me and my four siblings.  When the first grandchild arrived, she complained. I distinctly recall her saying, “I’m too young to be a “granny”; but of course, she subsequently became the best granny in the world to her seven grandkids. 

Mum liked to play bingo, bet on the horses, and take a punt on the football pools. Her favourite TV programmes were: Are You Being Served, Keeping Up Appearances, and Deal or No Deal. 

We shared a passion for Greece, visiting a different island every year, and much to my embarrassment, mum would strike up conversations with strangers wherever we went.  

When she passed in 2008 after a sudden illness aged 64 - a spring chicken by today’s standards – she had retired and set up a catering business. She was supplying the local radio station and had developed quite a name for herself. 

On the day of her funeral, my overriding memory is of the deafening silence and the clip clop of horseshoes echoing through the streets – she was escorted to her final resting place on the back of a horse-drawn carriage.

I would be interested to hear if Moodscopers have any theories as to why certain memories persist and others not. How much is down to age, and why do some people have photographic memories and others have brains like a sieve?

Cappuccino

A Moodscope member