I smiled as they tumbled out of the black leather folder, unapologetically announcing their presence as they struck the curious wooden floor. Birthday cards from years ago, sent at a time when our relationship was new, our words cautious, our emotions belied only by our overuse of exclamation marks.
As I stood up to put them away somewhere safe, my eyes fell on our wedding photograph, still patiently waiting for its new home. Having established its new locale, I set about continuing to do this for each and every treasure, and after about an hour it struck me: where were the middle memories?
I had flicked through real, hold-in-your-hand photographs from about 7 years ago, each album ending with those nothing shots we all used to take "to finish the film", but which now remind us of the dated carpets, the old-fashioned TV sets, the wonderful comfort of the familiar kitchen tables. And on the other end of the scale, I had quickly scanned a small box replete with leaflets, restaurant cards and the odd ticket stub from the past six months.
But there must have been an in-between? Surely our lives haven't rocketed straight from then to now, punctuated only by the odd occasion which merited a kindly supplied group picture? What about the postcards, the trinkets, the invitations, the souvenirs - the stuff that might not seem valuable in itself, but which has a power we neglect to cherish?
Psychologists talk of the primacy and recency effects: the ability to remember the first and last pieces of information. It's why you remember to buy milk, bread, and that last thing your partner shouted out before you left the house; but nothing else. It's why marketers (myself included) put the most important points at the beginning and at the end, and couch the least exciting things safely in the middle where they dumbly wait to be ignored. And I think it's precisely why these middle memories are so elusive - we need triggers to latch on to. It's not just a daft keyring; it's a door to a memory we might otherwise never open.
I've moved a lot over the past 10 years, and each year brings with it a cull. A precocious "I don't need that" mentality; a misplaced confidence that my recent memories are things I won't ever forget. Or maybe it's simply a desire for a de-cluttered house, or an easier move. And sure, digital photographs are a lot to do with it, but it's much more than that: I used to keep old IDs (both real and fake), stocking fillers, calendars, cinema tickets, seemingly inconsequential cards or notes - my life before I left home is safely catalogued in my parents' house, yet for all my years since then I can barely fill a single drawer.
But this year I've decided this stops. Discovering old triggers is a wonderful unlocking, no matter how seemingly "insignificant" the experience at the time. One day we won't come home to this house, or regularly see these friends, or frequently visit these places. So I'm going to buck my own trend, and start stashing my keepsakes; my synapses will thank me the next time the memories come tumbling towards me.
It's time to start taking shots "just to use up the film".
