The Uninteresting Account Of Martin Storridge's Life

I had the idea for writing the fairly amusing memoirs of a man who, in all honesty, has done very little in his life and has suddenly realised as such. So often we read autobiographies from people who have done remarkable things and lived amazing lives, I wanted to turn that on its head.


1. 1957

I was born in the late, spring summer of 53. But I can’t tell you about my life in 1953, 54 or 56 because I don’t recall anything. I can only just remember something from 57, and it might instead be a memory from 58, or even 59. I was small and the world was big. No, I’m sorry, forgive me, for that can’t be true. The world appeared to be big and I was just small.

It must have been Camberley high street. I cannot be sure, but it would figure to be Camberley high street, it’s only a fleeting memory and it might not have ever happened. I’ve just convinced myself that this, this memory, is the first point my brain decided that something dreadful had taken place and it needed to be stored in my head for later recollection. I don’t know why it would do that, it’s my brain but every now and then it makes decisions for me.

I was the proud owner of a comfort rug, it was a lot bigger than a blanket, but as I’ve mentioned, I was very small. It fell through my fingertips and it landed in a puddle, smearing it, changing its colour. I wanted to stop, but my Mum tugged my tiny hand, I was only small and I couldn’t stop. She wasn’t heartless, we were probably just late for the bus, we were always late for the bus and my Mum would never adjust her watch to the right time. She was stubborn like that and I was just very small.

That’s my first memory.

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