She did not think connectedly of her past at all. Old people do not. To the old the past comes in a series of pictures, not of necessity connected, here intensely vivid, there dim and blurred — a green field, a quiet evening, an angry quarrel, some loving face, some sharp disappointment — and all, vivid or blurred, dispassionately removed. No call for action any more. Quiescence. And then a strange wonder that to those about them these scenes so real, so actual, mean nothing, stir no reaction.
Hugh Walpole - The Old Ladies (1924)
The other day found me passing the time in
Littleover, a suburb of Derby which was once a village. It is still possible to see hints of its individuality, traces of the village it once was. I know it well, having lived there as a teenager with my parents and brother, then again some years later with Mrs H because it happened to be convenient for my new place of work.
Mrs H and I left the area for good nearly forty years ago when my job changed again and a series of pictures crossed my mind as I sat there in the café. Family, friends, bike rides, tennis, visits to the library on the corner, the old pub, the birth of our children, shopping, an alarmingly expensive barber I only visited once, people I once knew who lived there.
I still know the area well, but forty years is too long for the thread to remain unbroken and still feel a sense of belonging. Now it is merely a series of pictures. Maybe that was the sense of belonging, the immediate familiarity of the pictures. Maybe that’s all it was and still is - a series of pictures.