Autobiographical Memories

Boxing Day was always the same: our grandparents arrived at our home which was now strewn not with paper but with things we had received. They pretended to be interested in my toys while I pretended to understand what was being discussed: it was one such day (perhaps not actually Boxing Day) when I thought we were talking about Hong Kong but it was actually the Dordogne; or perhaps the other way round. Such mutual pretence is more sophisticated among adults, yet still I feel that I am there for entertainment rather than conversation: but is there really a difference?

The smell always touched us when we entered the hall and joined the long line of hungry children. We were pleased if there were burgers (the message was passed along the line), but now I cannot believe that those tiny discs of chewy meat in buns, dropped onto plastic trays, nourished us at all. I waited, and in my memory it seems like chance dictated whether I would offend some grown-up, in those days when the history of everything I had done and said, with genuine feeling, followed me and forged my reputation as the cheekiest boy in the school.