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PRE-WAR YEARS (Click here for photo gallery) Memory involves the mental act of receiving, processing, storing and retrieving information. Leo Tolstoy wrote(1) "In all our memories the middle disappears, and only the first and last impressions, especially the first one, remains." Paradoxically, as we age, we frequently find that the earliest events in our lives start to burn more vividly, while occurrences sometimes merely minutes old may have vanished totally from our memory. At the time of writing this chronicle, in my middle eighties, I thankfully have little evidence of the latter; I am, however, simply by the act of having to revive the memory of early experiences, enjoying an amazing and vastly pleasing refulgence of some of my earliest recollections. Of course, there is a danger here that these memories have been influenced and modified over the years by the intercession of others who may have had greater reason for memorialising the events. Thus, although these earliest memories are clear and distinct to my inner eye, I cannot in all honesty swear that they have not been subject to some outside influence. Nevertheless, here they are. At the age of two or three, I see myself standing in the road between my home and the small park opposite(2), crying because I have stepped in some unmentionable excrement. This actually had been the product of my own bodily function. The memory may or may not be accurate; the incident certainly was, and became part of family lore. It was the custom in those days to market new products by dropping samples through letter-boxes. Apparently one such new development was a chocolate alternative to such awful laxatives as castor oil. It was called (as you've certainly guessed) ex-lax. I had apparently eaten an entire sample, consisting of six squares, where one or two was the recommended adult dosage. With the inevitable result. Just slightly older, but in a similarly execrable incident, my mother was determined to feed me a dose of the product that predated ex-lax, and was somewhat more palatable than castor oil, to cure an apparent case of constipation. This was California Syrup of Figs. And here I have a very distinct memory of fighting off my mother's attempts to force feed me a spoonful of this liquid. She ultimately succeeded in getting it into my mouth and I promptly spat it out. At which point she discovered and apologised to her tiny tot for feeding him a tea-spoonful of Camp coffee(3). Well, as we might say nowadays (although we certainly would not have done so then): Shit happens!
(1) The History of Yesterday, 1851. (2) Albert Square, Stepney, east London. See gallery. (3) This was a blend of coffee and chicory as a substitute for the more expensive real coffee. It came in a bottle of similar shape and size to the laxative.
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