Thursday, 12 December 2013

Memory box

As I slowly drag my way through the painfully tedious palaver of packing up my shit I'm discovering things.

A box of art equipment that would have come in really handy, if only I'd remembered I had it, for example. The remote control and power lead for the TV I sold last week to a mate who was most disappointed to realise it was fecking useless without the bits. I'm glad I've found those, it has to be said. It was all getting a bit embarrassing.

And mostly, I've found photographs. Books of memories, some of them mine, most of them not. We were never a big photo family. It must be impossible for young 'uns today to grasp that people used to just go and do things, including holidays and Christmas and the like, without taking photographs of it every two seconds. We didn't even have a photo face.

I'm pretty freaked out by the selfie squint thing I see all over my Facebook from the cool kidz. It's weird. When did looking constipated become the thing? I don't understand. I'm so old.

Anyway, back in my day, we'd take some photos with a shitty disposable camera thing and then generally forget to have them developed. This, along with some rather disturbing massive blanks in my memory of childhood means that there are many gaps. I wonder what it would have been like had we been able to catalogue every single thing. There are definitely many moments and haircuts and phases I'm more than happy to pretend never happened, to be fair. No one needs their growing up moments broadcast to the entire world.

But my own memories are usually painful. I see pictures of my dad and my family and I wish so much that I could go back. Just for five minutes. So what I prefer to do is look at memories before I existed. Pictures of my parents are few and far between. Combined with the fact that they both lack any kind of vanity, they were also just not very photography through the years. So, that means the ones I have are treasured.

Like this one:


My mum rocking the late 60s by having some crazy Spanish lady pour Sangria down her neck, to the obvious delight of my father and shock and awe from the lady next to her. 

Also this one:



I love this one. Before illness and stress and kids and all the things that came afterwards. Just my mum and dad. Happy. Dad seems to be taking it more in his stride with the Sangria, it has to be said.

A moment frozen.

And then I found this of my beautiful mother.


I'm so glad I have these. And forever annoyed that my ma's hair was way better than mine.

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