Lost Memories

There's not much of a problem with drugs in our village – unless you count heart, arthritis, and cholesterol pills. I'm mostly free from aches and pains, and the environment is really good for mental health.

Early this morning my daughter phoned me, and solved a puzzle that had given me a disquieting day and a sleepless night.

The cause of this mental turmoil was the discovery of a flash drive containing 32 chapters of a story that I have no recollection of writing.

This revelation had completely freaked me out, as I firmly believe that my episodic memory is without compare, although my explicit memory does leave something to be desired (according to my friends).

The puzzle was solved by my daughter explaining to me that whilst I was living in Kraków, I was high on Prozac and St John's Wort.

She reminded me about the multiple personalities I created, complete with email addresses, and my website 'Emptymonkey.com' that was ludicrously, outlandishly over the top.

Everything culminated with the onset of winter, as golden Sycamore leaves carpeted the ground.

I cancelled my lovely little apartment, which I have a reminder of in a short film I made called 'Nightwalk' which opens with me locking my front door to the sound of the 'Radiorobotnic' jazz trio as I leave for my walk to the Harris piano bar.

I took the 30 hour coach trip to London because I wanted to experience the journey from the perspective of a Polish person, travelling to the UK to work, and to be, part as far as is possible for an Englishman, part of that group of people who had such an impact on us during the second world war.

The chat with my daughter must have released something in my brain, because as soon as I had stopped listening, I fell asleep for two hours, to be awoken at  midday by Jack of 'Painintheglass' as he cleaned my windows.

So, while sitting in the corner Café, I start writing this as, Sophie cooks up some lunch for me, and I drink my 1st cup of proper coffee of the day.