My memory is proglottidean, like the tapeworm, but unlike the tapeworm it has no head, it wanders in a maze, and any point may be the beginning or the end of its journey. I must wait for the memories to come of their own accord, following their own logic. That is how it is in the fog. In the sunlight, you see things from a distance and you can change directions purposefully in order to meet up with something particular. In the fog, something or someone approaches you, but you do not know what or who until it is near.
But when I think of my life at the Oratorio I can see it all, like a film. No longer proglottidean but, rather, a logical sequence . . .
Life changed when I was eleven years old, with my evacuation, in 1943, to Solara.