I went to Bridlington last week and said to my wife, “You know what…I think I’ve been here before. I think I might have been on holiday here. In fact, I think my Dad might have had a girlfriend here…”

It was more of a vague impression than a memory and I wasn’t even sure it was accurate, particularly as the words “my Dad” and “girlfriend” would not usually exist in the same sentence. But my brother confirmed it. My Dad did indeed have a Bridlingtonian girlfriend and we’d been there on holiday a number of times.

But I couldn’t remember a thing about Bridlington itself – not the coastline or the pier or the beach. I couldn’t remember the girlfriend or her house or even her name. The only thing I could remember about Bridlington with any degree of certainty was that there was a spider plant above the kitchen door.

How odd – to condense a whole period of my life into a pot-plant. What was hidden within those spidery leaves?

It made me wonder about all those other seemingly random memories that I have in my mind – what exactly was subsumed within each of them?

Like the time the local pub landlord left a bottle of lemonade for my Granny on our front step. On the side of the bottle he’d written – “maybe try this next time Renee.” Or what about the time my brother tried to force me onto the back of a Shetland pony. Or the time I was woken by someone in the dead of night and sent to sleep at my friend’s house down the road?

What have I hidden within these little vignettes of recollection?

And what about the things I’m convinced I remember – but couldn’t possibly…? I am sure I saw a killer whale – a real one, an Orca – on a daytrip to the seaside town of Rhyl in North Wales. Am totally sure of it. But I couldn’t have – so what does it mean?

They say you don’t really remember things – you don’t conjure up an exact recollection of what actually happened. It’s not like playing a video recording – it’s not necessarily reliable or chronological. It seems more likely that you imagine what it would have been like, constructed mainly from what other people have told you.

The only person who might be able to embellish that memory isn’t here anymore – my Dad.

I wish I could ask him about that spider plant although I’m pretty sure I know what he’d say: “what the bloody hell are you talking about? Get me a beer.”