Memory is an odd thing. I was thinking, yesterday, of Mother’s Day last year, which was very difficult for various boring, sad reasons, and a huge contrast with this year, a happy occasion marred only by the odd spat with a teenager-who-shall-remain-nameless. I could remember last year really well, and I remember other years with perfect clarity, too. But when I sat down to write a post today, the first thing I thought of was the red meat ban now operating in our house – which I wrote about last week. Doh! How could I forget a thing like that?
I suppose there would have been a difference of emphasis – today I was going to write about how guilty I felt, having given my children salami sandwiches in their packed lunches every day for ten straight years (yes, really – it’s the only thing they like). It’s more or less like strapping them into their own coffins every morning instead of helping them on with their ludicrously heavy back packs. But it is pretty alarming that I couldn’t really recall penning more or less the same stuff (not that my every offering isn’t highly original, you understand) just a few days ago.
Memory is strange (oops, have I already written that?) and, having various friends with parents beginning to drift into old age and forgetfulness, it’s something that’s preying on my mind, I suppose. Maybe I should put the effort into my memorising my last week’s worth of blog output instead, to avoid any future slips. But you can’t always choose what’s in the forefront of your mind. Or maybe you can, and I’ve never got the knack. Or worse, maybe I’ve just forgotten how? Yikes!