I remember the man who called himself Jesus. He used to hang around at gigs and festivals dressed in sort of a white shift and sandals and he said he was Jesus. And then the Strawbs sang a song about him.

I remember the first time I repeated myself in this blog. It was a piece about Eliot's brace at rehearsals for the Fragile gig. I had almost repeated myself word for word. And I had to go back and delete one of the entries, I can't remember which. Now I wish I had left it, because I am sure there would have been a slightly different nuance to what I had written. And let's face it, it wasn't blatant plagiarism. Though it was perhaps lazy. Thing is, it's bound to happen again, and I don't know what to do.

I remember Mrs Morant, a primary school teacher, standing over me until I had finished my pudding (see my entry for March 9), but I did not know until recently that my mother had gone into school the next day and respectfully suggested they were wasting their time making me eat anything containing currants.

I remember my first day as an encyclopaedia salesman. We had had a couple of days training (that is learning the spiel and when to stop if you are clearly wasting your time.) Anyway come the first day, walking from door to door and not once getting across the threshold to the second speech, which is delivered in the living room, I was so hungry half way though the afternoon that I ate the only thing offered to me - a currant bun.

I remember Mr Forster (my girlfriend's father), on hearing that I had a job as an encyclopaedia salesman, saying: "You couldn't sell milk to a starving pussy!" He was right.

I remember An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.

I remember my dad's boat, the Margorikki. Mainly finished in mahogany.

I remember the first film I saw at the pictures was The Abominable Snowman. I hid under the seat.

I remember losing my recorder on the way home from school. It had a specially made case.

I remember getting a penny deposit back on empty bottles.

I remember Chaucer's Nun's Priest's Tale.

I remember our crop of English teachers, Jim Greenwood, Alf Monk and Bernard Harrison. They were all totally genuine, passionate and anti-establishment, a bit like Robin Williams in Dead Poets' Society. It wasn't until many years later that I discovered they were disciples of FR Leavis, straight from Downing College and hoping to change the world, teaching a morality based on the works of Shakespeare, Chaucer, DH Lawrence, John Clare, John Donne, William Blake.