Textures of Childhood

Deep memory is strongly sensory; smells in particular trigger memory flashbacks. Identity is memory; without your memories, you are no longer you.

Recently, I had a few memory flashbacks triggered by texture - the sense of touch. Not as strong or frequent as memories triggered by smell, but still very specific. In particular, furniture in my childhood home in Hanwell, West London. The green corduroy covering of the chairs in the living room; the mid-grey of the armchairs and sofa in the front room; the veneer on the side of the television set; the bobbly material of the curtains in my bedroom, red on pale yellow. The enamel paraffin stove that heated the bathroom on cold nights. Carpeting - and the Dunlop underlay, green and spongey. I associate with play, building cars and trains out of Lego, rolling them across the carpet, the tufts 

Texture of textiles too - the towelling beach robes my mother sewed for me and my baby brother when we holidayed on the Isle of Wight in 1964; my green-and-white striped school scarf, which I remember best from foggy days, breathing in through the damp woollen fibres, grey flannel school trousers, gaberdine school raincoat..

Bedding in the pre-duvet era, from itchy woollen blankets to the candlewick bedspreads - and the time-consuming art of making one's bed each morning - is another memory.

In the 'summer house' (as our garden shed was called, brick-built and glazed, under a sloping asbestos roof), there were gardening tools - these had one thing in common; wooden handles that would often splinter, causing pain to young hands. Bricks - I can recall clearly the texture of the front-garden wall; I would sit astride it, my horse, my railway engine.

A propos of sensory memory flashbacks - we have transported around 30 large and medium-sized boxes full of books from my late parents to Jeziorki; a big thanks to Marek, Jane, Felix, Eddie and Moni - many lengthy Zoom sessions looking at what goes where (to Derby, to Warsaw, to charity, to the skip). Bit by bit I am sifting through them; many books will head down to the działka (but first I need a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bookcase built for them all). 

In the meanwhile, my garage, where it's all sitting right now, has taken on the odour of 79 Cleveland Road! Walking into the garage now with my eyes closed, I sniff the air - and am transported a thousand miles to the west.

This time last year:
Stupendous sunset, Sułkowice

This time six years ago:
Politics - the importance of fact.

This time seven years ago:
Rural Mazovian toponyms

This time eight years ago:
Carrying the weight on both shoulders

This time nine years ago:
Railway history - the big picture

This time 11 years ago:
A new lick of paint form W-wa Powiśle

This time 12 years ago:
The ingredients of success