Memory

No, girlzoot, on that night (it seems years ago) I was seeing everything in the utmost clarity – both inside my head and outside of it.
The tracery of the arch picked out in the cold light of a full moon, like something a giant’s son might have constructed out of a massive Meccano set. The details: great gleaming rivet-heads; green paint, flaking on the handrail; the hard, icy feel of steel through my gloves; the slippery wetness under my trainers.

But memory? Just as history is usually written by the winners, in the context of victory, so memory is often constructed by the losers – the past, shaped by the regrets of the present.