My memory is less like a catalogue and more like a hoarder’s garage

When I was a kid, a teacher told my class a parable about a man and a fly. The man was a bad man, the tale went, and as punishment for his sins, God sent a fly into the man’s ear. The fly flew into the man’s brain, where it buzzed around until the man went insane.

I was only a little girl and the story had a profound impact. From that moment on, I became terrified of Crazy Fly Brain syndrome. I stayed vigilant during the day, alert to all insects approaching my head. At night, I slept with my sheets wrapped protectively around my ears. It became a genuine phobia; I could not sleep with my ears uncovered for at least 20 years.

Thankfully, I no longer fear insect-induced psychosis. But I do marvel at the impact random experiences can have on our lives. I must have listened to dozens of stories and read scores of books at school, yet this little tale is the one I remember. I forgot the plot to Watership Down, I can’t name any of the Famous Five, but I couldn’t forget the Crazy Fly Brain story if I tried.

Memory is both complex and haphazard. Every day we live through thousands of micro moments, and our minds cannot retain each one. Our brain sifts through them, discards most immediately, and selects a tiny few to be transferred to long-term memory.

Experiences with a strong emotional impact have a better chance of being remembered, but sometimes things stick without any obvious reason. My memory is less like a catalogue and more like a hoarder’s garage. There are some gems in there, some functional items you’d expect, and a ton of bizarre and totally random odds and ends.

I can browse through my garage and find some really special moments. That time I overcame my nerves to sing a solo in a school play. The day I won a big prize and was overcome with excitement as the principal called my name. The moment my eight-year-old crush stood next to me during drop the hanky. (“If I’d got the hanky, I would have dropped it behind you,” he whispered – still one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard.)

I can dig out some traumatic memories. The day our house was robbed while my sister was home. The awful fight I had with my best friend.

KERRI SACKVILLE

And, of course, I can dig out some traumatic memories. The day our house was robbed while my sister was home. The awful fight I had with my best friend. And the time I caught my ring finger in a gate hinge, someone swung the gate open, and the top of my finger was sliced clean in half. (“It looks just like a heart!” my mum told me, after it healed. “Your finger looks like a bum,” the kids at school said.)

But I also remember other, seemingly random snippets from my childhood, moments that don’t feel significant or emotional at all. A pair of red corduroy trousers I paired with a red jumper. My grandmother’s huge pink bath surrounded by tiny soaps. The smell of my mother’s perfume. An ad for Taronga Zoo. An ad for Dewar’s Scotch. (I remember an alarming number of ads.)