I find myself doing a lot of remembering lately. It is not the big dramatic sort of remembering but the little stuff. For example, just before getting out of bed the other morning I was thinking about getting out of bed as a child. I was trying to remember if I ever owned a dressing gown. There was no heating in our house apart from a two-bar electric fire and sometimes a coal fire in the front room. Our house was prefabricated so offered little protection from the outside temperatures. My nighties were made of brush nylon which claimed to be warm and came with a warning that they could catch fire at any moment. The windows were metal and single glazed, there was lino on the floor and sheets with blankets on the bed. I took a hot water bottle to bed but by the morning the bed was too cold to hang around in. So, what did do when I got up? Maybe I got dressed straight away. Perhaps I did never have a dressing gown? Then I remembered. My aunty and uncle bought me a dressing gown. It was powder blue and made of quilted nylon. I think I remember at the time wondering what the point of it was. In these difficult times my head is often full of the news, the news and more news. Remembering has become an alternative activity. Not the big dramatic stuff but what did I used to have for tea and what sort of curtains did we have in the bathroom, if any?

Harper Donohue is a blogger and author of  Last Day