Memory

Memory is a funny thing.

The Long Suffering Husband and I have just come back from a weekend in Oxford that will fade from memory quite quickly (except the sticky toffee pudding). 

"Tell us all about it," everyone said, but there was nothing to tell. It rained, we saw some old buildings and we didn't think it was as nice as Cambridge.  We went because he'd never been and I'd only been once as a child.

My memory of my first visit to Oxford was one of rain, park and ride buses that my parents thought were brilliant and disappointment that Woodstock wasn't filled with the spiky-haired birds from the Snoopy cartoon. 

My parents can't remember this trip.

"Were we camping?" they asked. I thought we were staying in a guest house.

My sister and I both remember the park and ride bus but both our parents are in denial of ever being impressed with such a phenomenon.  She lost her Teddy, Mo and I lost my kagoule. 

"You must remember," I said, "Mo and the bus?"

"No." They were certain.

"I got him back but you didn't get your Kaggie back!" 

Old resentments die hard and I'm not sure I've forgiven her.

"Well you were making such a fuss and this older couple took our details. Mum and Dad were all for getting a new bear but they felt sorry for you."

"They didn't need to get a new near because a Policeman brought him back when we were sitting on that wooden bench."

Some of the other details were 

fuzzy but we remembered the couple, the policeman and the bench. 

Still unable to remember,  Mum asked, "What else do you remember?"

"It rained."

"Was that where we left the tent behind?"

"No, that was Cambridge."

"I preferred Cambridge. I think we only went because Mary said we would love it. Did we stay with Mary's friends?" Mum asked Dad.

Aunty Mary had a canary up the leg of her drawers.

She wasn't a real Aunt but a neighbour with a Boxer dog that liked to push small children down the stairs, a fierce Policeman husband, the airs of Hyacinth Bucket, grown up children, a love of Bing Crosby records, a serving hatch between the kitchen and living room and a weird rule about turning your boiled egg upside down when you'd finished to fool her husband.

"Maybe they were the older couple who helped with Mo?" I suggested.

"Were they the ones with the waterbed?"

my sister asked. "I was fascinated with the waterbed. They had a spinning leather chair too."

None of us really remembered but there was something there in the back of my head. Something that made me frown with the effort of recalling it.

For the last two days, memories have been floating in and out of my dreams. I've seen afternoons playing hangman and a bedroom with a circular waterbed and purple satin sheets.

I checked my memories with my sister.. "It can't be right can it? It all seems a bit seedy for middle class Oxford in 1979."