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| Sunflowers and Santa Claus: Guardian writers and readers on how their first memory changed them | Sunflowers and Santa Claus: Guardian writers and readers on how their first memory changed them |
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| It starts as a dreamy state of dizzying vertigo, and then I rattle, headfirst, down the wooden stairs. Falling down the white-painted (I think), definitely uncarpeted stairs of our first house is my first memory, and I must have been around two. But is it real? A new study suggests not, and if you can remember lying in your pram/taking your first steps/having your nappy changed, then you are almost certainly wrong, too. | It starts as a dreamy state of dizzying vertigo, and then I rattle, headfirst, down the wooden stairs. Falling down the white-painted (I think), definitely uncarpeted stairs of our first house is my first memory, and I must have been around two. But is it real? A new study suggests not, and if you can remember lying in your pram/taking your first steps/having your nappy changed, then you are almost certainly wrong, too. |
| In a survey of more than 6,600 people, published in Psychological Science, researchers found that 40% of people believe they have a first memory from when they were two or even younger, even though evidence suggests it is not possible for memories from this age to be retained. Around three to three-and-a-half seems to be the agreed age of a first memory, although Martin Conway, the study’s co-author and director of the Centre for Memory and Law at City, University of London, has said it’s “not until we’re five or six that we form adult-like memories due to the way that the brain develops and due to our maturing understanding of the world”. | In a survey of more than 6,600 people, published in Psychological Science, researchers found that 40% of people believe they have a first memory from when they were two or even younger, even though evidence suggests it is not possible for memories from this age to be retained. Around three to three-and-a-half seems to be the agreed age of a first memory, although Martin Conway, the study’s co-author and director of the Centre for Memory and Law at City, University of London, has said it’s “not until we’re five or six that we form adult-like memories due to the way that the brain develops and due to our maturing understanding of the world”. |
| “People genuinely believe that [these very early recollections] are their memories,” says Shazia Akhtar, senior research associate at the University of Bradford and co-author of the study. Where do these “memories” come from? “There are a few theories. It could be a memory from a story that a parent or grandparent told, or from a photograph. Or it could be something they simply thought they remembered.” When the researchers looked at these improbable memories in detail, the descriptions of the “fictional” memories were longer than those that were more likely to be real. This could suggest they have been embellished and rehearsed over the years, or informed by photographs. | “People genuinely believe that [these very early recollections] are their memories,” says Shazia Akhtar, senior research associate at the University of Bradford and co-author of the study. Where do these “memories” come from? “There are a few theories. It could be a memory from a story that a parent or grandparent told, or from a photograph. Or it could be something they simply thought they remembered.” When the researchers looked at these improbable memories in detail, the descriptions of the “fictional” memories were longer than those that were more likely to be real. This could suggest they have been embellished and rehearsed over the years, or informed by photographs. |
| For many of us, these early memories have been part of the narrative of our lives. Middle-aged and older people, the researchers discovered, were more likely than young adults to recall fictional memories from infancy – the older we get, the more attached it seems we become to recollections from our early years. | For many of us, these early memories have been part of the narrative of our lives. Middle-aged and older people, the researchers discovered, were more likely than young adults to recall fictional memories from infancy – the older we get, the more attached it seems we become to recollections from our early years. |
| While it’s a little earth-shifting to discover these may well not be real, all memories, the researchers point out, “contain some degree of fiction”. With that in mind, here are some Guardian writers’ and readers’ earliest recollections. | While it’s a little earth-shifting to discover these may well not be real, all memories, the researchers point out, “contain some degree of fiction”. With that in mind, here are some Guardian writers’ and readers’ earliest recollections. |
| Polly Toynbee | Polly Toynbee |
| Am I two? We are in the Isle of Wight, where I was born, probably on the road to Shorewell, the village nearby. I am sitting in a battered khaki pram, wearing a prickly red woollen pixie bonnet with itchy ties under the chin, knitted by my mother. | Am I two? We are in the Isle of Wight, where I was born, probably on the road to Shorewell, the village nearby. I am sitting in a battered khaki pram, wearing a prickly red woollen pixie bonnet with itchy ties under the chin, knitted by my mother. |
| My father is pushing me downhill and my older sister is trotting along beside, laughing, because my father is playing “Look, no hands!” and letting go of the pram, as we all roar with laughter. But on the hill the pram rolls away faster and faster, hits a grassy bank, tips me into a ditch and I howl and howl. He picks me up, dusts me down, puts me back in, saying: “Don’t cry. Don’t tell Mummy!” My sister says: “Stop making such a fuss!” But I snivel all the way home. As soon as I see my mother, I start howling again, pointing at my head. “Daddy, bump! Daddy bump!” And she gets the message. “Sneak!” says my sister, and my father looks disappointed in me. Is it true? All are long dead now. But it’s true to my relationship with both father and sister; they the daring adventurers, me the snivelling tell-tale. | My father is pushing me downhill and my older sister is trotting along beside, laughing, because my father is playing “Look, no hands!” and letting go of the pram, as we all roar with laughter. But on the hill the pram rolls away faster and faster, hits a grassy bank, tips me into a ditch and I howl and howl. He picks me up, dusts me down, puts me back in, saying: “Don’t cry. Don’t tell Mummy!” My sister says: “Stop making such a fuss!” But I snivel all the way home. As soon as I see my mother, I start howling again, pointing at my head. “Daddy, bump! Daddy bump!” And she gets the message. “Sneak!” says my sister, and my father looks disappointed in me. Is it true? All are long dead now. But it’s true to my relationship with both father and sister; they the daring adventurers, me the snivelling tell-tale. |
| Polly Toynbee is a Guardian columnist | Polly Toynbee is a Guardian columnist |
| Remona Aly | Remona Aly |
| My illustrious moment of glory remains the time I was awarded the school prize for the tallest sunflower competiton. All the rival kids in the Kent area were competing alongside me: the only brown girl in my working-class village primary school. I carried my sunflower seed home like it was a rare jewel, and planted the treasure with mum and dad. Every day for months, I watched, watered and waited for a miracle. It felt like for ever, but finally by late autumn my little seed had become a towering, beaming thing of beauty. I took my place next to its furry neck, which stretched to the heavens , ready for dad to take the photo, and hoped, prayed and begged for it to be a winner. At school, my jaw dropped on the assembly floor when my name was called out and I was presented with a tiny trophy no bigger than my hand. But I was off my head with joy. I’ve never been a winner again since, so the memory of the tallest sunflower, insignificant as it seems, still makes my heart shine. | My illustrious moment of glory remains the time I was awarded the school prize for the tallest sunflower competiton. All the rival kids in the Kent area were competing alongside me: the only brown girl in my working-class village primary school. I carried my sunflower seed home like it was a rare jewel, and planted the treasure with mum and dad. Every day for months, I watched, watered and waited for a miracle. It felt like for ever, but finally by late autumn my little seed had become a towering, beaming thing of beauty. I took my place next to its furry neck, which stretched to the heavens , ready for dad to take the photo, and hoped, prayed and begged for it to be a winner. At school, my jaw dropped on the assembly floor when my name was called out and I was presented with a tiny trophy no bigger than my hand. But I was off my head with joy. I’ve never been a winner again since, so the memory of the tallest sunflower, insignificant as it seems, still makes my heart shine. |
| Remona Aly is a journalist and commentator | Remona Aly is a journalist and commentator |
| Stephen Moss | Stephen Moss |
| My first memory – or at least what I have always convinced myself is my first memory – is of falling, down steep stone steps. I was about two and a half. I remember nothing except the sensation of falling, of not being in control. My mother tells me now that I was wearing a “siren suit”, an old name for a onesie, with a fur hat. Perhaps the padding made the impact less painful. But there were certainly tears, and my mother’s friend emerged from the adjoining flat to see what the commotion was. | My first memory – or at least what I have always convinced myself is my first memory – is of falling, down steep stone steps. I was about two and a half. I remember nothing except the sensation of falling, of not being in control. My mother tells me now that I was wearing a “siren suit”, an old name for a onesie, with a fur hat. Perhaps the padding made the impact less painful. But there were certainly tears, and my mother’s friend emerged from the adjoining flat to see what the commotion was. |
| I don’t remember any of that; nor does my mother recall how this fall occurred, or where she was. She who was absurdly protective. I had almost died of pneumonia in infancy, and that had made her super-vigilant. Except the day of my vertiginous tumble. | I don’t remember any of that; nor does my mother recall how this fall occurred, or where she was. She who was absurdly protective. I had almost died of pneumonia in infancy, and that had made her super-vigilant. Except the day of my vertiginous tumble. |
| We lived in what my parents rather disparagingly referred to as “rooms”: four flats in a rambling old house occupied by families with young children waiting for a council house. Another early memory – I would have been three – is moving to that estate and seeing cows outside the window, cows grazing on farmland that would soon be replaced by housing in the great Macmillan building boom of the late 50s and early 60s, one world giving way to another. | We lived in what my parents rather disparagingly referred to as “rooms”: four flats in a rambling old house occupied by families with young children waiting for a council house. Another early memory – I would have been three – is moving to that estate and seeing cows outside the window, cows grazing on farmland that would soon be replaced by housing in the great Macmillan building boom of the late 50s and early 60s, one world giving way to another. |
| The move and the cows and the security of the new council house which would be my home for 15 years till I left for university are happy memories, but many of those earliest recollections are painful: a boy throwing sand in my eyes as we watched the big new road next to the estate being built; standing on a wasps’ nest in a neighbouring wood and being stung multiple times – I was going to the circus a day or two later and had to hide my puffy, swollen face behind sunglasses; and, at five, going to school, screaming and clinging to my mother as she left me, for all I knew for ever. Falling, always falling. | The move and the cows and the security of the new council house which would be my home for 15 years till I left for university are happy memories, but many of those earliest recollections are painful: a boy throwing sand in my eyes as we watched the big new road next to the estate being built; standing on a wasps’ nest in a neighbouring wood and being stung multiple times – I was going to the circus a day or two later and had to hide my puffy, swollen face behind sunglasses; and, at five, going to school, screaming and clinging to my mother as she left me, for all I knew for ever. Falling, always falling. |
| Stephen Moss is a Guardian feature writer | Stephen Moss is a Guardian feature writer |
| Hadley Freeman | Hadley Freeman |
| The first thing I remember involves me doing something incredibly stupid, which ended up hurting me and causing my parents an enormous amount of stress, because, at the age of two, I was a big believer in starting as one means to go on. My little sister was eight months old, so my mother was looking after her and my father was supposed to be watching me. But I managed to give him the slip and was wandering around our apartment in New York. I remember walking into our dining room, going towards a chest of drawers, opening the top one and seeing a pack of photos inside. Certain these must be photos of me (narcissist from day zero, baby), I gripped the drawer and pulled myself up so I could see them. Suddenly I was lying on the floor with the chest on top of my legs and my father was picking me up. The next thing I remember is lying on my bedroom floor in a full body cast, because it turned out that I’d managed to break my thigh bone. My poor mother had to spend the next eight weeks looking after a newborn baby and a toddler in a body cast. Let’s just say photos from that era don’t show any of us looking our best. | The first thing I remember involves me doing something incredibly stupid, which ended up hurting me and causing my parents an enormous amount of stress, because, at the age of two, I was a big believer in starting as one means to go on. My little sister was eight months old, so my mother was looking after her and my father was supposed to be watching me. But I managed to give him the slip and was wandering around our apartment in New York. I remember walking into our dining room, going towards a chest of drawers, opening the top one and seeing a pack of photos inside. Certain these must be photos of me (narcissist from day zero, baby), I gripped the drawer and pulled myself up so I could see them. Suddenly I was lying on the floor with the chest on top of my legs and my father was picking me up. The next thing I remember is lying on my bedroom floor in a full body cast, because it turned out that I’d managed to break my thigh bone. My poor mother had to spend the next eight weeks looking after a newborn baby and a toddler in a body cast. Let’s just say photos from that era don’t show any of us looking our best. |
| Hadley Freeman is a Guardian columnist and feature writer | Hadley Freeman is a Guardian columnist and feature writer |
| Simon Hattenstone | Simon Hattenstone |
| I had just started school. I had a balloon. I loved my balloon. I was blowing it up and watching it whiz round the playground. The dinner lady came up to me and tried to confiscate it. “Give me your balloon!” she said. I couldn’t believe why anybody would do that. I was having great fun, not hurting anybody. I looked at her, and said no. “Give me your balloon,” she repeated. “No,” I said. And she snatched it out of my hand. “Fuck off,” I said. I don’t know where the words came from. My parents never used that language. | I had just started school. I had a balloon. I loved my balloon. I was blowing it up and watching it whiz round the playground. The dinner lady came up to me and tried to confiscate it. “Give me your balloon!” she said. I couldn’t believe why anybody would do that. I was having great fun, not hurting anybody. I looked at her, and said no. “Give me your balloon,” she repeated. “No,” I said. And she snatched it out of my hand. “Fuck off,” I said. I don’t know where the words came from. My parents never used that language. |
| I was shamed by the headmaster in the playground. Even worse, my sister, who at six was two years older, was humiliated. We were lined up in the playground, waiting to go inside, and he walked up to me and pulled me out of the line by my ear, and led me to the front. He then said: “Where is the sister of this boy?” And she had to come out to claim ownership and be ritually humiliated. They never told the other pupils what I had done. Too shocking. But they knew it involved a balloon and a dinner lady. The children were simply told that I’d be getting double punishment. Strangely, I can’t remember what double punishment was. I left that school shortly afterwards, for one that was more tolerant of balloon-blowers. | I was shamed by the headmaster in the playground. Even worse, my sister, who at six was two years older, was humiliated. We were lined up in the playground, waiting to go inside, and he walked up to me and pulled me out of the line by my ear, and led me to the front. He then said: “Where is the sister of this boy?” And she had to come out to claim ownership and be ritually humiliated. They never told the other pupils what I had done. Too shocking. But they knew it involved a balloon and a dinner lady. The children were simply told that I’d be getting double punishment. Strangely, I can’t remember what double punishment was. I left that school shortly afterwards, for one that was more tolerant of balloon-blowers. |
| Simon Hattenstone is a Guardian feature writer | Simon Hattenstone is a Guardian feature writer |
| Jess Cartner-Morley | Jess Cartner-Morley |
| It is crystal clear. High-resolution picture, surround sound, date-stamped March 1977. I am three years and nine months old, and someone is holding me up at the window of my parents’ bedroom in the Dalston commune where we live, so that I have a rare bird’s eye view on the world to watch my mum climb carefully out of our orange 2CV car. She is carrying a bundle of white blankets that I know is my new baby sister Alice. I can see how slowly and carefully my mum moves, and with the primal instinct of small children, I instinctively know, at some level, that this is a moment that changes everything, that the tiny bundle I am laying eyes on for the first time will grow up to be my best friend. | It is crystal clear. High-resolution picture, surround sound, date-stamped March 1977. I am three years and nine months old, and someone is holding me up at the window of my parents’ bedroom in the Dalston commune where we live, so that I have a rare bird’s eye view on the world to watch my mum climb carefully out of our orange 2CV car. She is carrying a bundle of white blankets that I know is my new baby sister Alice. I can see how slowly and carefully my mum moves, and with the primal instinct of small children, I instinctively know, at some level, that this is a moment that changes everything, that the tiny bundle I am laying eyes on for the first time will grow up to be my best friend. |
| Except in the interest of fact-checking, I just called my mum, 41 years later. “If that’s how you remember it, darling, then that’s how you remember it,” she says diplomatically. “But I had Alice in the middle of the night and you came to the hospital with your dad the following morning, and we all came home together.” | Except in the interest of fact-checking, I just called my mum, 41 years later. “If that’s how you remember it, darling, then that’s how you remember it,” she says diplomatically. “But I had Alice in the middle of the night and you came to the hospital with your dad the following morning, and we all came home together.” |
| Jess Cartner-Morley is associate editor (fashion) at the Guardian | Jess Cartner-Morley is associate editor (fashion) at the Guardian |
| Hannah Jane Parkinson | Hannah Jane Parkinson |
| It is fairly embarrassing to admit, but I grew up as quite the storyteller. I remember making up an uncle who worked as a Cadbury’s delivery-truck driver (to boast about receiving mythical free chocolate), and in reception, lying to my mother that a man had brought snakes to school for show-and-tell. But the earliest memory I can recall took place in nursery when I was three or four and “Father Christmas” visited. For some reason, I decided to tell the teachers and parents that Father Christmas “bit my finger”, while holding it tight, as if it would spring blood. This was met with perplexed expressions, and an interrogation of what was probably a 20-year-old in a cotton wool beard, and not a cannibal Santa. I have no idea what prompted me to make this up but I like to think it speaks to my florid imagination and is not the mark of a generally duplicitous character. | It is fairly embarrassing to admit, but I grew up as quite the storyteller. I remember making up an uncle who worked as a Cadbury’s delivery-truck driver (to boast about receiving mythical free chocolate), and in reception, lying to my mother that a man had brought snakes to school for show-and-tell. But the earliest memory I can recall took place in nursery when I was three or four and “Father Christmas” visited. For some reason, I decided to tell the teachers and parents that Father Christmas “bit my finger”, while holding it tight, as if it would spring blood. This was met with perplexed expressions, and an interrogation of what was probably a 20-year-old in a cotton wool beard, and not a cannibal Santa. I have no idea what prompted me to make this up but I like to think it speaks to my florid imagination and is not the mark of a generally duplicitous character. |
| Hannah Jane Parkinson is a Guardian columnist | Hannah Jane Parkinson is a Guardian columnist |
| John Crace | John Crace |
| When you’re the wrong side of 60, dating memories becomes an ever more imprecise science. What you believe happened in one year may actually have happened some time later, and what you think you remember might only be the memory of a photograph. But the first memory of which I can be sure is from when I was five. I was sitting in the back of the family Ford Cortina with my sister. My mother dropped my sister off to return something to a friend and turned the car round and parked up. When my sister returned she got in the other side and told me to budge up, which I did and we set off again. As we went round the first corner, I went flying out of the car as my sister had not shut the door properly. I was unconscious for several hours and remember coming round to find myself at home in bed seeing two versions of my mother. I’ve often wondered if that fall erased all other earlier memories, or whether the reason I remember it was because it was so traumatic. | When you’re the wrong side of 60, dating memories becomes an ever more imprecise science. What you believe happened in one year may actually have happened some time later, and what you think you remember might only be the memory of a photograph. But the first memory of which I can be sure is from when I was five. I was sitting in the back of the family Ford Cortina with my sister. My mother dropped my sister off to return something to a friend and turned the car round and parked up. When my sister returned she got in the other side and told me to budge up, which I did and we set off again. As we went round the first corner, I went flying out of the car as my sister had not shut the door properly. I was unconscious for several hours and remember coming round to find myself at home in bed seeing two versions of my mother. I’ve often wondered if that fall erased all other earlier memories, or whether the reason I remember it was because it was so traumatic. |
| John Crace is the Guardian’s parliamentary sketch writer | John Crace is the Guardian’s parliamentary sketch writer |
| Hugh Muir | Hugh Muir |
| I was six or seven. I remember a whispered conversation. “Sister Archer will look after him.” The details came later. Mum, a Pentecostal minister with global ambitions, was upscaling. So she went off to Kenya, the first of many trips to a country and an area she came to love. And I, with no obvious person in our working family to care for someone so young, went to stay with a kindly old lady who had a big house near my school. It meant sweets and fizz after school on weekdays, weekends back at home and a love of brightly lit airports at night. For some reason, Mum’s flights always returned at night. | I was six or seven. I remember a whispered conversation. “Sister Archer will look after him.” The details came later. Mum, a Pentecostal minister with global ambitions, was upscaling. So she went off to Kenya, the first of many trips to a country and an area she came to love. And I, with no obvious person in our working family to care for someone so young, went to stay with a kindly old lady who had a big house near my school. It meant sweets and fizz after school on weekdays, weekends back at home and a love of brightly lit airports at night. For some reason, Mum’s flights always returned at night. |
| Hugh Muir is a Guardian editor and columnist | Hugh Muir is a Guardian editor and columnist |
| Sarah Phillips | Sarah Phillips |
| I grew up in 1980s suburban southern England, where nothing ever happened. So it is ironic that my earliest memory is probably the most dramatic thing to happen in our neighbourhood. I was three and playing in the garden with my mum and sister. All of a sudden we heard the most almighty bang. In my memory of events, we ran, barefooted, along with scores of others who just happened to be around in the middle of a working day, towards the smoke. We later found out that a pilot had killed himself by flying a light aircraft into our local community centre – where I had been due to start at playgroup the next week. Of course, it was the talk of the neighbourhood for years but I am sure I can remember how it felt to be there. | I grew up in 1980s suburban southern England, where nothing ever happened. So it is ironic that my earliest memory is probably the most dramatic thing to happen in our neighbourhood. I was three and playing in the garden with my mum and sister. All of a sudden we heard the most almighty bang. In my memory of events, we ran, barefooted, along with scores of others who just happened to be around in the middle of a working day, towards the smoke. We later found out that a pilot had killed himself by flying a light aircraft into our local community centre – where I had been due to start at playgroup the next week. Of course, it was the talk of the neighbourhood for years but I am sure I can remember how it felt to be there. |
| Sarah Phillips is the Guardian’s deputy features editor | Sarah Phillips is the Guardian’s deputy features editor |
| Anne Perkins | Anne Perkins |
| When I was two and a half my mother took me, my four-year-old twin sisters (one with a broken leg) and my one-year-old brother to New Zealand to introduce us to her parents, our grandparents. It took four days to fly around the world then, and everyone was sick except me, though that is family legend, not memory. My only actual recollection of the whole epic journey is not of my grandparents, or the country, but of my great-grandparents’ tiger skin rug. It lay spreadeagled on a polished floor like a fugitive from one of our story books. Most of all I remember the poor creature’s great gaping mouth and the teeth and their cruel sharpness, and the vivid image of being eaten alive that they conjured up. But that is not so much a memory as a memory of a memory, rehearsed so many times that sometimes I wonder if it ever was. | When I was two and a half my mother took me, my four-year-old twin sisters (one with a broken leg) and my one-year-old brother to New Zealand to introduce us to her parents, our grandparents. It took four days to fly around the world then, and everyone was sick except me, though that is family legend, not memory. My only actual recollection of the whole epic journey is not of my grandparents, or the country, but of my great-grandparents’ tiger skin rug. It lay spreadeagled on a polished floor like a fugitive from one of our story books. Most of all I remember the poor creature’s great gaping mouth and the teeth and their cruel sharpness, and the vivid image of being eaten alive that they conjured up. But that is not so much a memory as a memory of a memory, rehearsed so many times that sometimes I wonder if it ever was. |
| Anne Perkins is the Guardian’s deputy political editor | Anne Perkins is the Guardian’s deputy political editor |
| Poppy Noor | Poppy Noor |
| My earliest childhood memory is of me propped up on the sofa, too small to move, and my granny Coralie bringing sweeties home. I remember the pinky-brown of the sofa, my grandma’s wispy hair, and the rustle of the brown paper bag with sweets in. The customary embellishments have faded with time; the gust of warmth that entered the room with her, a sweet smell somewhere between soap and perfume; and her kindness. | My earliest childhood memory is of me propped up on the sofa, too small to move, and my granny Coralie bringing sweeties home. I remember the pinky-brown of the sofa, my grandma’s wispy hair, and the rustle of the brown paper bag with sweets in. The customary embellishments have faded with time; the gust of warmth that entered the room with her, a sweet smell somewhere between soap and perfume; and her kindness. |
| With age, I realised the memory couldn’t be real. My granny died in 1992, two years after I was born. Plus, the scene in my memory resembles two early photos that used to sit on my auntie’s mantelpiece – one with me as a baby, the other without me in it. | With age, I realised the memory couldn’t be real. My granny died in 1992, two years after I was born. Plus, the scene in my memory resembles two early photos that used to sit on my auntie’s mantelpiece – one with me as a baby, the other without me in it. |
| My first real memory is a lot sadder. It involves my mother, who has schizophrenia, being sectioned. I know it’s real because nobody takes photos of that kind of thing. I definitely prefer the made-up one about my granny. | My first real memory is a lot sadder. It involves my mother, who has schizophrenia, being sectioned. I know it’s real because nobody takes photos of that kind of thing. I definitely prefer the made-up one about my granny. |
| Poppy Noor is a Guardian columnist and commissioning editor | Poppy Noor is a Guardian columnist and commissioning editor |
| Jeffrey Thomas | Jeffrey Thomas |
| When I was four, my family lived in south London and we had a caravan on the Kent coast. I remember going down there with Dad, presumably because Mum was pregnant with twins. Lunch was fish and chips and then off to the penny arcade to play the slot machines (Dad was a martyr to them). I have a vague memory of coming home on the train wrapped up in his overcoat, and I suppose I got carried home from the station. | When I was four, my family lived in south London and we had a caravan on the Kent coast. I remember going down there with Dad, presumably because Mum was pregnant with twins. Lunch was fish and chips and then off to the penny arcade to play the slot machines (Dad was a martyr to them). I have a vague memory of coming home on the train wrapped up in his overcoat, and I suppose I got carried home from the station. |
| Dad was hospitalised and eventually died from Parkinson’s and old age. In the last months of his life, his long-term memory was incredibly vivid. I asked him if he remembered our day out, 40 years before. He sat quietly and then said: “You were running up and down in the station waiting room, tripped and bashed your face on the wooden bench just as the train came in. I had to hold a handkerchief on your face because your lip was bleeding and everyone was looking.” I don’t remember that bit. | Dad was hospitalised and eventually died from Parkinson’s and old age. In the last months of his life, his long-term memory was incredibly vivid. I asked him if he remembered our day out, 40 years before. He sat quietly and then said: “You were running up and down in the station waiting room, tripped and bashed your face on the wooden bench just as the train came in. I had to hold a handkerchief on your face because your lip was bleeding and everyone was looking.” I don’t remember that bit. |
| Jeffrey Thomas is a Guardian reader | Jeffrey Thomas is a Guardian reader |
| Denna Hintze | Denna Hintze |
| My earliest memory is walking hand-in-hand with my maternal grandfather to the corner shop where he let me choose sweets. I picked the pink and white coconut bar and he said it was his favourite too. He died in late 1971, so I must have been almost three years old when the incident happened. My mother has no memory of this happening; there is no one to corroborate the memory, so it couldn’t have been based on a family story or photo. The only photo we have of us together is him holding me upside down over his shoulder at roughly the same age; we’re both laughing. It is my only memory of him; I don’t even recall him holding me and making me laugh. | My earliest memory is walking hand-in-hand with my maternal grandfather to the corner shop where he let me choose sweets. I picked the pink and white coconut bar and he said it was his favourite too. He died in late 1971, so I must have been almost three years old when the incident happened. My mother has no memory of this happening; there is no one to corroborate the memory, so it couldn’t have been based on a family story or photo. The only photo we have of us together is him holding me upside down over his shoulder at roughly the same age; we’re both laughing. It is my only memory of him; I don’t even recall him holding me and making me laugh. |
| Denna Hintze is a Guardian reader | Denna Hintze is a Guardian reader |
| Diane Hiscox | Diane Hiscox |
| I remember being bathed by my mother in the kitchen sink. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was small enough to fit in the sink. As she lifted me out, I could see my two sisters and my dad outside through the kitchen window. It was overcast, the grass and trees were the deep green of early autumn. One or both of my sisters wore something red. Most remarkably I remember the muddle of uncomfortable feelings this evoked, which of course I could not name until much later: shame (at being naked perhaps?) and exclusion – I wanted to be outside with my sisters. | I remember being bathed by my mother in the kitchen sink. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was small enough to fit in the sink. As she lifted me out, I could see my two sisters and my dad outside through the kitchen window. It was overcast, the grass and trees were the deep green of early autumn. One or both of my sisters wore something red. Most remarkably I remember the muddle of uncomfortable feelings this evoked, which of course I could not name until much later: shame (at being naked perhaps?) and exclusion – I wanted to be outside with my sisters. |
| Diane Hiscox is a Guardian reader | Diane Hiscox is a Guardian reader |
| Johannes Karremans | |
| I lost my teddy in the bushes behind a huge stone monument in a park near our house. I say lost, but actually my brother threw it there. I was terrified to look for it in the dark green leaves, so I cried and screamed a lot. Finally, I was given back the toy. In my mind, I see the monument and the leaves, not the teddy bear. I remember the fear. The monument is still there. When I last saw it a decade ago, it looked small and innocent. | |
| Johannes Karremans is a Guardian reader | |
| Richard Hall | |
| My earliest memory is from 1949 when I was three years old. My sister had been riding a bicycle with me on the handlebars. I jumped off and broke my leg. My memory starts from when she put me with my broken leg back on to the handlebars to go home. I remember crying; a man, who was working in his garden, staring; and a huge water tower near where I had jumped off. Oddly enough, I have no memory of the pain or the fact that my sister was there. Nor do I remember any fear of riding on the handlebars. | |
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