Categories: uncategorized
Date: 16 November 2006 16:26:22
I was walking on a wall.
An old city wall - wide, with grass-covered sloping sides and plenty of room on top for a group of people to walk side by side. It was a sunny day, bright enough to bleach the colour out of both the path and most of the surrounding buildings. Which proves beyond any doubt that the city was not in Britain - France or Spain is more likely. And the problem is I don't know which, let alone which specific city it was, just like I don't know when it was, or who I was with. All I have is a clear visual image in my memory. I know I was with some friends, but I have a feeling there was only one or two really familiar friends - the rest were friends of friends. Sometimes such groups can be very intimidating - particularly if they are, say, friends of your new girlfriend or boyfriend - you feel very much on trial and wary. But it doesn't always have to be that way - some circles of friends are just naturally very, well, friendly. The Parisian dinner I wrote about a while back was with, essentially, friends of my wife, but they were wonderful people, really welcoming and relaxing to be with. (In extreme contrast with some of the other circles of friends that I've been introduced to through my wife, but anyway...). Well, that day on the wall the friends were the good sort - it was a relaxed group enjoying a gentle meandering afternoon stroll on a wall. Had we just had a fantastic lunch? That could certainly explain the vagueness - I've had many a good lunch of numerous courses (sometimes even involving more food courses than liqueur courses) followed by a completely amnesial afternoon. One memorable occasion was on a neatly planned outing where the afternoon's activities had to be delayed until most of our party had walked around the town enough to get at least slightly sober. But at least I can remember that time (at least I think I can, I think it was the time we spent the afternoon in the cork museum. Yes, the things in the top of wine bottles - I really have been to a museum devoted to them. A good lunch was probably necessary though). The problem is the number of these dismembered memories. Some aren't even so long ago - I remember spending several days this summer walking around with my nose in a book. Now I read a lot, but only when I'm sitting down. Yet this book was such a page-turner that when I left the house to walk to work I was reading it, and at lunch time I'd read it instead of the paper, and it would accompany me on the walk home from work too. And all evening. This is highly unusual, and it must have been not only quite a page-turner, but a respectable book too - I'm very conscious of what people will think of my reading matter. I was absolutely mortified a couple of years ago at an open day at the local University to see someone on the English department stand actually sat reading a Dan Brown book. Yes, that one. I mean, how shameless can you be? He didn't even have it hidden in a pornographic magazine or anything like that - at least that would have improved appearances slightly. But my problem is I can't remember what book it was that I was reading. It was obviously one of the best books I've picked up this year, and yet six months later I haven't a clue what it was. Why do I bother living if nothing stays with me?