Nearly three years ago in January 2017 I promised myself that I would no longer contribute to Amazon’s profits, and I stopped shopping with them altogether. I removed my card details from my account and pledged to buy less, buy direct and pay more for the things that I really need or want in life. I object to Amazon’s way of doing business. They don’t pay enough tax, they treat their staff poorly, and their rock bottom prices, whilst enticing, encourage wasteful over-consumption. Whilst I long ago stopped buying books and music on Amazon, favouring bricks and mortar bookshops and record stores, or buying direct from musicians and bands at shows, until January 2017 I used the Amazon marketplace to buy things like camera batteries and replacement parts for household items whenever something broke.
I love spring and summer best. Daylight from 5am to 9pm, everything is green, all the doors and windows are open, and even on an overcast day the world somehow feels full of life. Every autumm, without fail, the melancholy settles in around mid October. It’s not as bad as it used to be as I make sure I get out for a walk every day and have introduced hobbies that don’t require light in the same way photography does, but I struggle with the gloominess and lack of light, and I just don’t like the colour palette of late autumn as green, red and yellow fade to bare branches and slush. There are some things I like about autumn though, so here’s a little collection of them.
I’ve been thinking a lot about memory lately, about how and why we remember what we do and whether our memories can ever be 100% accurate and objective. It’s a subject that I find fascinating, particularly when I try to piece together my own collection of fragmented memories or hear my mother share her version of events that have taken place during her lifetime.
As such I thought I would revisit some of my memories and write them down. They may not be 100% accurate, partly because time warps facts and changes details, but also because of the benefit of hindsight. As decades stack up it’s hard to be sure that what you remember happened as clearly as you think it did, if at all, but these fragments are the stories behind my eyes, as I recall them now.
On my eighth birthday my parents packed up the house in Berlin where we had lived for four years and our family moved back to England. English was my first language, my parents were British, I had gone to an English language school in Germany and I held a British passport, but culturally I didn’t feel British. I didn’t know what a pound or a penny was, having only ever used the deutsche mark and pfennig, and I didn’t know the pop-music or TV shows that were popular among English children my age either. We had SSVC and Cartoon Network in Germany rather than BBC and ITV. I simply didn’t hold the cultural reference points that other children who had grown up in Britain did, and felt like a bit of a misfit.