By the waters of Babylon,
there we sat down and wept,
when we remembered Zion.
Psalm 137: 1 (ESV).
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If I asked you to name the capital of Tibet, you would probably answer in an instant. But if I asked you about the last time you went on holiday with friends, what would happen then? A film would begin to play in your head. That kind of recall is called episodic memory. We all carry it. It is the part of the mind that makes us smile or laugh at odd moments on a train, while fellow passengers look at us as if we have lost our marbles.
Let me share one of mine. It is funny, a little nostalgic, and a reminder of how little self-awareness my mother had at times—a fault we all share now and then.
I was six years old. Sundays were marked by your arrival late in the morning behind our tenement on Langland’s Road. Wearing a bowtie with a Donkey Jacket, you stood on a soapbox like a music-hall artist who had lost his way into our quiet neighbourhood.
With a swig of fortified wine, you would launch into Mario Lanza’s Be My Love, my grandfather’s favourite. Each performance sent our dog scuttling under the table in terror. When you finished, coins would tumble from my mother’s purse onto the ground from two stories up. And every week she would say, “Why doesn’t that man sing something new?” while dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief she kept tucked in her
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.