I recently heard about a news story (well, I say “news”) explaining we start losing our memory at an increasing rate as we get older. Typically I can’t now find the reference – and as I am approaching the magic age of 47, which I think was the critical moment at which my brain will finally collapse in a heap, I decided that it was probably time to start recording memories before I am too old to do more than dribble and gaze about blankly. Although that does sound like fun too.
I have been trying to build my family tree for a long time – over 20 years in fact – and have often regretted not being able to speak to older family members. To be fair, the ones I did speak to told me complete fantasies, or refused to discuss anything to do with the past, so my experiences were not generally positive. However, I think I would like to set down some of my own memories, which sound increasingly bizarre as the years go by. Obviously life was simpler, sunnier and better in my youth – largely because my parents had all the stress.
But whatever it was really like, that’s my mandate here. Try to remember what it was like growing up in a suburb west of London in the 1960s and 1970s. The music, TV, games, school rituals, parental concerns, food, fasion, buses, homes and holidays. Whatever crosses my mind.