You think you know your own history, then a moment passes and something you’d closed down long ago and almost forgotten returns from exile. The catalyst to the retrieval of the memory isn’t always obvious. It might be seconds of someone else’s conversation you hear as you overtake them crossing the road; it might be an advertising billboard that you pass for weeks on your way to work and then one day something about it triggers an idea that ricochets down a tunnel of life; it might be the sight of seven bullfinches attacking a crab-apple tree at the end of winter. Then, quite suddenly, the minutes are rattling by and the streams of memory are flushing in thick and fast, and you are terrified by the fear that you no longer know who you are. What else is waiting to return? Will age and its partnered dementia release more of these truths, or is this down to a leakage of fact? You want to stop it, to damn the flood if you can, but you can’t decide whether it’s an incoming or an outgoing of movement. You will have to sit it out until it subsides and hope for recognition.