Thoughts on my own verbosity: I write and I write. I live in fear of the forgetfulness that takes up residence in the absence of writing. I don’t have other people’s memory for dates abstracted, but have to put them in context, label them with year and month and why and how.
The 1980s have for me largely evaporated under the glaring heat generated by my attempts to remember it all; the threads of my early childhood have, leaving but a few, been unravelled into what crb once described as holey “knitting” by the simple fact that I never wrote about it. The events I do remember all turned up in something I wrote at school, aged eleven; otherwise, by now, they might as well have never happened.