#which is a shame cos i cant have my sunglasses on the top of my head at all times anymore

[writingguide003-blog]

Sunflowers and Santa Claus: Guardian writers and readers on how their first memory changed them

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Sunflowers and Santa Claus: Guardian writers and readers on how their first memory changed them

Our earliest memory can shape our lives, but new research suggests that many are false. Here, writers and readers reflect on their earliest recollections

It starts as a dreamy state of dizzying vertigo, and then I rattle, headfirst, down the wooden stairs. Falling down the white-painted (I think), definitely uncarpeted stairs of our first house is my first memory, and I must have been around two. But is it real? A new study suggests not, and if you can remember lying in your pram/taking your first steps/having your nappy changed, then you are almost certainly wrong, too.

In a survey of more than 6,600 people, published in Psychological Science, researchers found that 40% of people believe they have a first memory from when they were two or even younger, even though evidence suggests it is not possible for memories from this age to be retained. Around three to three-and-a-half seems to be the agreed age of a first memory, although Martin Conway, the studys co-author and director of the Centre for Memory and Law at City, University of London, has said its not until were five or six that we form adult-like memories due to the way that the brain develops and due to our maturing understanding of the world.

People genuinely believe that [these very early recollections] are their memories, says Shazia Akhtar, senior research associate at the University of Bradford and co-author of the study. Where do these memories come from? There are a few theories. It could be a memory from a story that a parent or grandparent told, or from a photograph. Or it could be something they simply thought they remembered. When the researchers looked at these improbable memories in detail, the descriptions of the fictional memories were longer than those that were more likely to be real. This could suggest they have been embellished and rehearsed over the years, or informed by photographs.

For many of us, these early memories have been part of the narrative of our lives. Middle-aged and older people, the researchers discovered, were more likely than young adults to recall fictional memories from infancy the older we get, the more attached it seems we become to recollections from our early years.

While its a little earth-shifting to discover these may well not be real, all memories, the researchers point out, contain some degree of fiction. With that in mind, here are some Guardian writers and readers earliest recollections.

I howl and howl Polly Toynbee, aged about two. Photograph: Courtesy of Polly Toynbee

Polly Toynbee

Am I two? We are in the Isle of Wight, where I was born, probably on the road to Shorewell, the village nearby. I am sitting in a battered khaki pram, wearing a prickly red woollen pixie bonnet with itchy ties under the chin, knitted by my mother.

My father is pushing me downhill and my older sister is trotting along beside, laughing, because my father is playing Look, no hands! and letting go of the pram, as we all roar with laughter. But on the hill the pram rolls away faster and faster, hits a grassy bank, tips me into a ditch and I howl and howl. He picks me up, dusts me down, puts me back in, saying: Dont cry. Dont tell Mummy! My sister says: Stop making such a fuss! But I snivel all the way home. As soon as I see my mother, I start howling again, pointing at my head. Daddy, bump! Daddy bump! And she gets the message. Sneak! says my sister, and my father looks disappointed in me. Is it true? All are long dead now. But its true to my relationship with both father and sister; they the daring adventurers, me the snivelling tell-tale.

Polly Toynbee is a Guardian columnist

Remona Aly

My illustrious moment of glory remains the time I was awarded the school prize for the tallest sunflower competiton. All the rival kids in the Kent area were competing alongside me: the only brown girl in my working-class village primary school. I carried my sunflower seed home like it was a rare jewel, and planted the treasure with mum and dad. Every day for months, I watched, watered and waited for a miracle. It felt like for ever, but finally by late autumn my little seed had become a towering, beaming thing of beauty. I took my place next to its furry neck, which stretched to the heavens , ready for dad to take the photo, and hoped, prayed and begged for it to be a winner. At school, my jaw dropped on the assembly floor when my name was called out and I was presented with a tiny trophy no bigger than my hand. But I was off my head with joy. Ive never been a winner again since, so the memory of the tallest sunflower, insignificant as it seems, still makes my heart shine.

Remona Aly is a journalist and commentator

Remona Aly and her prize-winning sunflower. Photograph: Courtesy of Ramona Aly

Stephen Moss

My first memory or at least what I have always convinced myself is my first memory is of falling, down steep stone steps. I was about two and a half. I remember nothing except the sensation of falling, of not being in control. My mother tells me now that I was wearing a siren suit, an old name for a onesie, with a fur hat. Perhaps the padding made the impact less painful. But there were certainly tears, and my mothers friend emerged from the adjoining flat to see what the commotion was.

I dont remember any of that; nor does my mother recall how this fall occurred, or where she was. She who was absurdly protective. I had almost died of pneumonia in infancy, and that had made her super-vigilant. Except the day of my vertiginous tumble.

We lived in what my parents rather disparagingly referred to as rooms: four flats in a rambling old house occupied by families with young children waiting for a council house. Another early memory I would have been three is moving to that estate and seeing cows outside the window, cows grazing on farmland that would soon be replaced by housing in the great Macmillan building boom of the late 50s and early 60s, one world giving way to another.

My mother was absurdly protective Stephen Moss, aged four. Photograph: Courtesy of Stephen Moss

The move and the cows and the security of the new council house which would be my home for 15 years till I left for university are happy memories, but many of those earliest recollections are painful: a boy throwing sand in my eyes as we watched the big new road next to the estate being built; standing on a wasps nest in a neighbouring wood and being stung multiple times I was going to the circus a day or two later and had to hide my puffy, swollen face behind sunglasses; and, at five, going to school, screaming and clinging to my mother as she left me, for all I knew for ever. Falling, always falling.

Stephen Moss is a Guardian feature writer

Hadley Freeman

The first thing I remember involves me doing something incredibly stupid, which ended up hurting me and causing my parents an enormous amount of stress, because, at the age of two, I was a big believer in starting as one means to go on. My little sister was eight months old, so my mother was looking after her and my father was supposed to be watching me. But I managed to give him the slip and was wandering around our apartment in New York. I remember walking into our dining room, going towards a chest of drawers, opening the top one and seeing a pack of photos inside. Certain these must be photos of me (narcissist from day zero, baby), I gripped the drawer and pulled myself up so I could see them. Suddenly I was lying on the floor with the chest on top of my legs and my father was picking me up. The next thing I remember is lying on my bedroom floor in a full body cast, because it turned out that Id managed to break my thigh bone. My poor mother had to spend the next eight weeks looking after a newborn baby and a toddler in a body cast. Lets just say photos from that era dont show any of us looking our best.

Hadley Freeman is a Guardian columnist and feature writer

Simon Hattenstone

I had just started school. I had a balloon. I loved my balloon. I was blowing it up and watching it whiz round the playground. The dinner lady came up to me and tried to confiscate it. Give me your balloon! she said. I couldnt believe why anybody would do that. I was having great fun, not hurting anybody. I looked at her, and said no. Give me your balloon, she repeated. No, I said. And she snatched it out of my hand. Fuck off, I said. I dont know where the words came from. My parents never used that language.

I was shamed by the headmaster in the playground. Even worse, my sister, who at six was two years older, was humiliated. We were lined up in the playground, waiting to go inside, and he walked up to me and pulled me out of the line by my ear, and led me to the front. He then said: Where is the sister of this boy? And she had to come out to claim ownership and be ritually humiliated. They never told the other pupils what I had done. Too shocking. But they knew it involved a balloon and a dinner lady. The children were simply told that Id be getting double punishment. Strangely, I cant remember what double punishment was. I left that school shortly afterwards, for one that was more tolerant of balloon-blowers.

Simon Hattenstone is a Guardian feature writer

Jess Cartner-Morley

It is crystal clear. High-resolution picture, surround sound, date-stamped March 1977. I am three years and nine months old, and someone is holding me up at the window of my parents bedroom in the Dalston commune where we live, so that I have a rare birds eye view on the world to watch my mum climb carefully out of our orange 2CV car. She is carrying a bundle of white blankets that I know is my new baby sister Alice. I can see how slowly and carefully my mum moves, and with the primal instinct of small children, I instinctively know, at some level, that this is a moment that changes everything, that the tiny bundle I am laying eyes on for the first time will grow up to be my best friend.

Jess Cartner-Morley, aged three, with her baby sister Alice. Photograph: Courtesy of Jess Cartner-Morley

Except in the interest of fact-checking, I just called my mum, 41 years later. If thats how you remember it, darling, then thats how you remember it, she says diplomatically. But I had Alice in the middle of the night and you came to the hospital with your dad the following morning, and we all came home together.

Jess Cartner-Morley is associate editor (fashion) at the Guardian

Hannah Jane Parkinson

It is fairly embarrassing to admit, but I grew up as quite the storyteller. I remember making up an uncle who worked as a Cadburys delivery-truck driver (to boast about receiving mythical free chocolate), and in reception, lying to my mother that a man had brought snakes to school for show-and-tell. But the earliest memory I can recall took place in nursery when I was three or four and Father Christmas visited. For some reason, I decided to tell the teachers and parents that Father Christmas bit my finger, while holding it tight, as if it would spring blood. This was met with perplexed expressions, and an interrogation of what was probably a 20-year-old in a cotton wool beard, and not a cannibal Santa. I have no idea what prompted me to make this up but I like to think it speaks to my florid imagination and is not the mark of a generally duplicitous character.

Hannah Jane Parkinson is a Guardian columnist

I grewup as quit the storyteller Hannah Jane Parkinson, aged three. Photograph: Courtesy of Hannah jane Parkinson

John Crace

When youre the wrong side of 60, dating memories becomes an ever more imprecise science. What you believe happened in one year may actually have happened some time later, and what you think you remember might only be the memory of a photograph. But the first memory of which I can be sure is from when I was five. I was sitting in the back of the family Ford Cortina with my sister. My mother dropped my sister off to return something to a friend and turned the car round and parked up. When my sister returned she got in the other side and told me to budge up, which I did and we set off again. As we went round the first corner, I went flying out of the car as my sister had not shut the door properly. I was unconscious for several hours and remember coming round to find myself at home in bed seeing two versions of my mother. Ive often wondered if that fall erased all other earlier memories, or whether the reason I remember it was because it was so traumatic.

John Crace is the Guardians parliamentary sketch writer

Hugh Muir

I was six or seven. I remember a whispered conversation. Sister Archer will look after him. The details came later. Mum, a Pentecostal minister with global ambitions, was upscaling. So she went off to Kenya, the first of many trips to a country and an area she came to love. And I, with no obvious person in our working family to care for someone so young, went to stay with a kindly old lady who had a big house near my school. It meant sweets and fizz after school on weekdays, weekends back at home and a love of brightly lit airports at night. For some reason, Mums flights always returned at night.

Hugh Muir is a Guardian editor and columnist

Sarah Phillips

I grew up in 1980s suburban southern England, where nothing ever happened. So it is ironic that my earliest memory is probably the most dramatic thing to happen in our neighbourhood. I was three and playing in the garden with my mum and sister. All of a sudden we heard the most almighty bang. In my memory of events, we ran, barefooted, along with scores of others who just happened to be around in the middle of a working day, towards the smoke. We later found out that a pilot had killed himself by flying a light aircraft into our local community centre where I had been due to start at playgroup the next week. Of course, it was the talk of the neighbourhood for years but I am sure I can remember how it felt to be there.

Sarah Phillips is the Guardians deputy features editor

Anne Perkins

When I was two and a half my mother took me, my four-year-old twin sisters (one with a broken leg) and my one-year-old brother to New Zealand to introduce us to her parents, our grandparents. It took four days to fly around the world then, and everyone was sick except me, though that is family legend, not memory. My only actual recollection of the whole epic journey is not of my grandparents, or the country, but of my great-grandparents tiger skin rug. It lay spreadeagled on a polished floor like a fugitive from one of our story books. Most of all I remember the poor creatures great gaping mouth and the teeth and their cruel sharpness, and the vivid image of being eaten alive that they conjured up. But that is not so much a memory as a memory of a memory, rehearsed so many times that sometimes I wonder if it ever was.

Anne Perkins is the Guardians deputy political editor

I realise the memory couldnt be real Poppy Noor, aged four. Photograph: Courtesy of Poppy Noor

Poppy Noor

My earliest childhood memory is of me propped up on the sofa, too small to move, and my granny Coralie bringing sweeties home. I remember the pinky-brown of the sofa, my grandmas wispy hair, and the rustle of the brown paper bag with sweets in. The customary embellishments have faded with time; the gust of warmth that entered the room with her, a sweet smell somewhere between soap and perfume; and her kindness.

With age, I realised the memory couldnt be real. My granny died in 1992, two years after I was born. Plus, the scene in my memory resembles two early photos that used to sit on my aunties mantelpiece one with me as a baby, the other without me in it.

My first real memory is a lot sadder. It involves my mother, who has schizophrenia, being sectioned. I know its real because nobody takes photos of that kind of thing. I definitely prefer the made-up one about my granny.

Poppy Noor is a Guardian columnist and commissioning editor

I have a vague memory of coming home wrapped in his overcoat Jeffrey Thomas with his father. Photograph: GuardianWitness

Jeffrey Thomas

When I was four, my family lived in south London and we had a caravan on the Kent coast. I remember going down there with Dad, presumably because Mum was pregnant with twins. Lunch was fish and chips and then off to the penny arcade to play the slot machines (Dad was a martyr to them). I have a vague memory of coming home on the train wrapped up in his overcoat, and I suppose I got carried home from the station.

Dad was hospitalised and eventually died from Parkinsons and old age. In the last months of his life, his long-term memory was incredibly vivid. I asked him if he remembered our day out, 40 years before. He sat quietly and then said: You were running up and down in the station waiting room, tripped and bashed your face on the wooden bench just as the train came in. I had to hold a handkerchief on your face because your lip was bleeding and everyone was looking. I dont remember that bit.

Jeffrey Thomas is a Guardian reader

Denna Hintze

My earliest memory is walking hand-in-hand with my maternal grandfather to the corner shop where he let me choose sweets. I picked the pink and white coconut bar and he said it was his favourite too. He died in late 1971, so I must have been almost three years old when the incident happened. My mother has no memory of this happening; there is no one to corroborate the memory, so it couldnt have been based on a family story or photo. The only photo we have of us together is him holding me upside down over his shoulder at roughly the same age; were both laughing. It is my only memory of him; I dont even recall him holding me and making me laugh.

Denna Hintze is a Guardian reader

Denna Hintze with her grandfather. Photograph: GuardianWitness

Diane Hiscox

I remember being bathed by my mother in the kitchen sink. Im not sure how old I was, but I was small enough to fit in the sink. As she lifted me out, I could see my two sisters and my dad outside through the kitchen window. It was overcast, the grass and trees were the deep green of early autumn. One or both of my sisters wore something red. Most remarkably I remember the muddle of uncomfortable feelings this evoked, which of course I could not name until much later: shame (at being naked perhaps?) and exclusion I wanted to be outside with my sisters.

Diane Hiscox is aGuardian reader

Johannes Karremans

I lost my teddy in the bushes behind a huge stone monument in a park near our house. I say lost, but actually my brother threw it there. I was terrified to look for it in the dark green leaves, so I cried and screamed a lot. Finally, I was given back the toy. In my mind, I see the monument and the leaves, not the teddy bear. I remember the fear. The monument is still there. When I last saw it a decade ago, it looked small and innocent.

Johannes Karremans is a Guardian reader

Richard Hall

My earliest memory is from 1949 when I was three years old. My sister had been riding a bicycle with me on the handlebars. I jumped off and broke my leg. My memory starts from when she put me with my broken leg back on to the handlebars to go home. I remember crying; a man, who was working in his garden, staring; and a huge water tower near where I had jumped off. Oddly enough, I have no memory of the pain or the fact that my sister was there. Nor do I remember any fear of riding on the handlebars.

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[winstonhcomedy]

“Dope A-F”- 1/24-1/25 - “Booed Off Stage and Reg Charity”

Sweet lord almighty. Thursday/Friday were some slobbrerknockers of shows. I’ve got three bad boys to cover so let’s hop right to it laydees.

Earlier in the week I got asked by Travis Carl if I could fill in for him at The Richmond Funny Bone hosting for the “Fresh Drunk Stoned Tour”. I of course agreed. Luckily the open mic this night was The Camel hosted by Jameson Babbowski. This was an early mic so I got to get two sets in.

I head over to The Camel right after work. I am the first comic there. The Camel always has a chill fun vibe to it. When Jameson gets there I look at the lineup and I know like half of the comics. The influx of new comedians continues. It is getting kind of insane. I feel like more and more experienced comics are either moving away/giving it up/taking a step back from standup. Which is a shame. I love the new comics, but I do miss the feeling of going to an open mic and it being filled with all the dudes I started with.

New comics are always good for a scene. As people trickle out you need more comics to trickle in. They bring audience members, and a sense of enthusiasm that is kind of gone from people who have been doing standup a while. The downside is when your scene becomes all new comics booking showcases becomes difficult. You want to give people opportunities, but at the same time a showcase full of newbies is just an open mic.

There is a family with a small child at the show. They tell Jameson they are ok with the swearing and are going to leave aft4er a quick bite. I get to see a few of my friends like Alex Castagne and Mike Engle. So that was a nice little hang.

Jameson goes up and does a quick hosting set before bringing me up. I go up and talk to the kid a little bit and get a few laughs. The crowd is interesting. Paying attention, but not really loving the comedy yet. My set goes pretty well. I need to write some new stuff because I am getting to the point where the new stuff I am working on is starting to become fully formed. The jokes go ok. Some hit pretty hard and some get nothing. All in all I was able to riff a couple new tings, and work on wording. I’d give this set a C-. I grab my stuff and run to my car to head to Short Pump to get to the Funny Bone.

It has been a while since I have been on a show here. I walk in and say hi to the staff. Every time I come by they have some new wait staff, but a lot of the people who’ve been there for years are still around. People like Cory, Derek, Buz, Brittany, and of course Jason the gm. I get to talk to everybody for a bit and shoot the shit before the comics from the “Fresh, Drunk, and Stoned” tour show up.

They were coming from VB so they had a comic down there drive them up and they gave them a guest spot. Drew Grizzly is the comedian who drove them. I have only seen him perform a couple times at clash so I don’t know much about his standup. I know the couple times at clash I wasn’t super impressed, but also that was forever ago and I think he was a super new comic at that time.

All three of the headliners were super cool. They were Tim Hanlon (LA), Matt Bellak (Chi) and Franco Harris (Chi). Very chill dudes and fun to hang with. all real professionals as well. Franco came in and had the complete run down written up ready to hand over to the sound guy Buz. I was going to be doing 10 up top, Drew was going to do 7, then each of them would do 20 each to close out the show.

They also did a great job of packing the show on a Thursday night. They didn’t sell out but they came damn close. I think there was close to about 220 people in there. Which is definitely a treat for a Thursday.

I go up first and have a super strong hosting set. I tried some material I’ve never done there before and it went over great. My “problems with China” bit hit super hard, and my “Angel/Devil” closer really got them. I’d give this set a B+. I really had them in a good place to get this show going and I bring up Drew.

I walk to the green room while he starts his set. I don’t really pay attention to it. He’s not getting a huge laugh or anything, but I don't think anything of it. I am talking in the back with the guys, and after like 2 minutes we start to hear a noise coming from the green room. I can’t really tell what the noise it, but is most assuredly not laughter.

I start to listen closer and realize it is boos. Drew is bombing so hard he is getting booed. Tim and I go out to check it out and we are just in awe. This crowd that was super into the show had now completely turned on him. Apparently he had started his set and said he had weird pubes. A woman responded, “you got a problem.” Instead of rolling with it he doubled down and started to be aggressive with the lady. He had not built up the goodwill in his set to warrant this type of response. So the crowd started to turn. He also mentioned that he doesn’t date black women (he is a black guy) which honestly is where he really lost the crowd (primarily black audience).

I have never seen this kind of shit before. It is surreal. People are losing their minds yelling at him, booing him, screaming to get him off the stage. People are standing up out of their seats. Like it had the vibe that someone was going to come up on stage and get him. Jason came out of his office wondering what was going on. It was too much for security to silence everyone. He was getting the light from the back, and he wouldn’t get off stage.

I don’t know how much time he did but it felt like a millennium in that atmosphere. It might be the worst set I've ever seen in my life. I was inching closer and closer to the stage trying to give him a hint. Also I was worried I was going to have to go on stage and take the microphone from him. The worst part is I have to go up after this. I tell Tim I am going to try my best to get the crowd back and do something before he gets on stage.

Drew finally gets off, and I go back up amidst a sea of boos. They’re still yelling and I give them a second to see if they’ll die down enough to try to get a word in. I finally grab the mic and say, “I think this is the first time in history where a room full of black people are like, ‘Thank God the white guys back’”, and it absolutely murders. People stand back up and are screaming and hollering. People are giving me high fives, and I'm really selling it leaning over with the mic stand talking to people and getting them pumped up. I bring Tim Hanlon on stage and the show is back on track. This is now one of my favorite comedy memories.

I go back to the green room and Drew is talking about it, and Franco and Matt are giving him good advice. Bombing happens, everybody does it, this is not a reflection of an entire comedians career or act. I do know that I have never in my life seen a worse set, and at least Drew knows it can’t get worse. He was in good spirits, and we all ended up having a dope rest of our night. I get a lot of compliments and I get to watch Tim, Matt, and Franco have super hot sets to end this amazing night. I also get a weekend of work from Jason in March. I love filling in dates on my calendar.

After the show I stick around, take some pictures, and meet some people. I say my goodbyes to everybody and then head to my car. I drive home enjoying the end of this awesome night.

1/25

The next day after work I took a nice nap, and then headed down to perform on Tidewater Tonight in Virginia Beach at Pinboys. This is a talkshow co-created and hosted by Roberto Lundgren Rodrigues. This isn’t a standup show. I had to create a character to be interviewed. I low-key love stuff like this, but I don’t get the opportunity to do it often.

I came up with the character several months ago when I was first asked, but I kept having to reschedule. I finally got an open Friday and was ready to unveil Reg Charity.  Basically the character idea I had was I'd be a disgraced, southern, ex PBA bowler who was banned from the sport due to my rampant alcoholism. So after my PBA career I started inventing. All my inventions are supposed to do the opposite of what they normally do (sunglasses that brighten the room, chips that help you lose weight, whiskey that sobers you up, and a toaster that turns toast into bread). It slowly becomes apparent during the interview that none of them work, and I get drunker and drunker on my “non-alcoholic” whiskey. 

I get to the venue early and am just hanging out with the people who run the show. Ryan Dix, Roberto, Laura Batty, and a few others. My buddy Nick Deez showed up also.

So after they set up for the show we wait for it to start. There is a tiny audience of maybe 5 or 6 who aren’t involved in the show. That’s ok though because everybody is super into the show. I am so excited to see how the video turns out because I am super excited about it. I improvised the entire thing. I feel like I went in and out of my accent, but I honestly don’t care. It was super fun, and I got people laughing. I had an absurd outfit on, and some great lines. I’d give it a solid B. If I get to go back I know I’ll do even better.

They do some ads, and a singing commercial. Then Donna Lewis goes up and is doing the character of an ex child star. She is having a hot one, and everyone is having a blast. The show ends and it was definitely a success.

They make several attempts to lift the couch up with me in it. We get some funny pictures of me falling out of it, and them failing to lift me. We keep chatting for about an hour, and just talk shop, and shit. It was a super dope show, and I can’t wait to do it again.

All in all this was a helluva two days of shows. A real hoot and a half. I just want to give everybody who reads this blog a million kisses. XOXO I love you and I’ll be back to recap the weekend tomorrow sweeties! GOODBYE LAYDEES!!!!