Memory …

 … LAVENDER IN A DRAWER. (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Memory, like dreams and sleep, remains a puzzle so huge that we barely think about it. It is obvious why one of my first recollections, perhaps aged three, is of sitting in a heavy, bulbous black car as it rolled backwards and downhill out of our front garden, gathering speed until it hit a tree and stopped. Oddly, I cannot remember my mother, who was in control of the vehicle, or rather not in control of it, saying anything, though she could have a colorful turn of phrase when required. It is not obvious why I remember sitting in a high-ceilinged room aged about seven, trying to make a plastic model of a Navy destroyer, amid much glue. Or why I remember swinging on a certain gate on a summer evening, at about the same age. There is no principle or pattern in all this.