Misty Memories

My dad’s car has broken indicator lights at the moment (not surprising - the car is a BMW so they are rarely used ;) ) so this morning, on the way to drop me off at the station, he stuck his arm out the window to indicate that he was about to turn right (bearing in mind, dear North Americans that we were on the left hand side of the road so the right window was the driver’s side… I don’t actually know what we’d have done if we turned left, but luckily there was no need to.) All of this is a convoluted introduction to the fact that my dad manually indicating reminded me of a story that made me roar when I was little. (With laughter, not anger.) Once upon a time, driving tests in the UK tested this very sort of manual indicating. The manoeuvre went: mirror, indicate by sticking arm out window, return right hand to steering wheel, change gear, return left hand to steering wheel, indicate a second time and turn. Simple enough, yes? However, one of my dad’s best friends, my uncle Sean, got himself a bit flustered and accidentally skipped the “return right hand to steering wheel step” so found himself with one hand on the gear stick, the other hand out the window, and by process of elimination we can deduce that there were no hands on the steering wheel. He failed the test.
So I commented to dad that he had been rather more successful at indicating than Uncle Sean (to be fair, the car is an automatic and I am less fluster-inducing than your average driving examiner) and dad replied “you never forget anything, do you?” Which is true. I have memories of our trip to Blackpool when I was 18 months (I was scared of the wax figures on the Pier) I can remember going to visit my mum and sister in hospital when Laura was born - I was 2 ½ - (I utterly ignored Laura because I was much more interested in the baby in the cot next to her,) and hiding her Wendy House on her 3rd birthday (I was 5) crying because I thought everyone had forgotten me. I have an almost infallible memory for conversations (particularly gossip, I never forget gossip, and regularly annoy the hell out of anyone who tells me juicy titbits by announcing “umm, the last time you told that story, you said…”) and could recite every line I uttered onstage as Abigail in The Crucible in high school.
Yet none of this helps me remember my cell phone when I leave the house. Or tickets when I am on my way to the theatre. Or passport when I leave for the airport… actually - passport! I must get my passport renewed or else I won’t be going anywhere this summer…
I mentioned this to my dad in the car this morning, then ably proved my point by proceeding to cheerily call “bye then, thanks for the lift, see you tonight!” and hop out the car… at least, I would have hopped out the car had I not forgotten to unclick my seat belt.
My sister reminded me three times on Wednesday that she would be out on Thursday night so there would be no one to pick me up at the station… which didn’t stop me phoning for a lift when I got on the train.
However, if anyone would like a full census of Ramsey Street circa 1987, each character’s backstory and sundry entanglements not to mention the full CV of the actor that played them… then I’m your girl.