The old record-player

As I try to collect my thoughts my mind races from one flashback to another.

It's unsettling to be so unsure of my past but if I let the thoughts race I'm hoping I can piece together at least some semblance of a memory of my life before now.

This place so familiar yet so strange - perhaps it needs to be caught on camera. Perhaps if I can film my surroundings it will help me to stabilize it, help me to remember.

I like to film things. I remember that. Maybe I have a movie camera.

Now something pops back into my mind: A distant memory: As a boy I wanted to make films, and on one memorable birthday as I began to open an impressive present, I thought I spied a silver lens. However, that moment quickly passed as a second similar shape emerged. In fact these were not silver lenses but silver controls on a wonderful record-player.

This present spoke to my other passion I now recalled: Music. Then suddenly I realized, this was my family home. This was the house where I grew up. Though none of my family were now in it, surely the record-player was upstairs in my bedroom. I ran up the stairs, turned right at the top double-backing across the landing to the large bedroom I knew to be ours.

There it was: The record-player from my youth. At once I put on some music. I was in the mood for the blues.