By the waters of Babylon,
there we sat down and wept,
when we remembered Zion.
Psalm 137: 1 (ESV).
"If I were to ask you the name of the capital of Tibet, you would answer instantly, right? But what if I ask you about the last time, you were on holiday with friends? What would happen? A film would roll in your head. If you want to attach a name to it, it's called episodic memory. We all have it. It's the part of our brain that makes us smile or laugh when we are sitting on the train, and people look at us as if we have lost our marbles. Let me share one of mine that is funny, nostalgic, and relates to my mother's lack of self-awareness—something we all fail to see at times."
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Word
I was six years old and Sundays were marked by your arrival late morning behind our tenement on Langland's Road. Clad in a bowtie and Donkey Jacket, you stood on a soapbox, an incongruous music hall artist in our quiet neighbourhood.
With a swig of fortified wine, you launched into Mario Lanza’s "Be My Love," my grandfather’s favourite. Each performance sent our dog scurrying under the table in fear.
As you concluded, coins clinked from my mother’s purse onto the ground from two stories up.
And every week my mother would say, “Why doesn’t that damn man sing something new?” Whilst dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief she took from her apron.
P.S. The capital of Tibet is Lhasa; don't tell me you didn't know.