remember where I'd put things years before, and how to recognize faces

from the distant past.

One face eludes me. Try as I might, I can't remember the face of the

teacher, (a nun), who tied me to my desk with a belt because my childish

exuberance was somewhat over the top!

On the other hand, during a recent visit to a convent, (for a friend's

Jubilee), I was amazed at the phenomenal memories nuns appear to have,

particularly those who claimed they'd taught me at primary school, forty

years ago.

(None of the sisters took responsibility for tying me to the desk,

however, and my memory failed to recognize any face that connected to my

"traumatic" experience.)

I don't think these ladies have done a memory course - it just seems

to come naturally. If I was a teacher, I'd find pupils' faces blurring

into one big Mr Blobby after a few years.

For instance, the sister who greeted us at the door instantly knew me,

and said she'd taught me. As usual I had to ask who she was, and still

remembered her not at all.

Perhaps it's because when I was a lad all the nuns wore long, black,

person-enclosing garments that hid them almost entirely from view. The

only identifiable parts were the hands and the face.

I'm not good at remembering hands at the best of times - and faces

that used to be tightly framed in black change out of all sight when

viewed in ordinary everyday gear.

But not all the nuns at the afternoon tea were unremembered. One I

met again had had the misfortune to follow in the footsteps of my

favourite music-teaching nun of all time, the one I adored, and for whom

I actually wept when she said she was being transferred.

This other lady, whose qualities and abilities, while different, were

no doubt as excellent, suffered badly by comparison, through no fault of

her own.

Naturally, she remembered more about the past than I did. (Do they

keep dossiers?)

She spoke of my poor practice record and the strain it had on my

mother's nerves, as well as my embarrassment at bringing her flowers

(perhaps as a peace offering). I apparently came half an hour early to

escape the unwanted attention of my mates.

I remember none of this - surely I used to practice perfectly?

Embarrassed about bringing flowers? Never.

Later, as I was sitting down balancing my cup of tea in one hand and

in the other one of those soft, fluffly cakes filled with mock cream and

smattered with icing sugar, (the sort that sticks to your beard and can't

be wiped off because you don't have a third hand), I was approached by a

six foot vision from the past. Someone I could never forget.

This nun, holding a tray in her hands and encouraging everyone to eat

more cakes, turned out to be my first and favourite music-teacher of all

time.

And she was the only nun that day who didn't instantly recognise me.

(She soon made it clear that this was hardly surprising: when I was

seven, I didn't have a beard.)

Her delight was even greater than mine, and she greeted me with the

warmth of someone to whom everyone is a long-standing friend.

She was as full of beans as ever, words high-tailing it off her tongue

as though she had so much to say the day would be over before she'd

finished. And she still had an enthusiasm for life that hasn't changed

in forty years.

It's curious how we so easily forget the names and faces of some

people who leave an unpleasant mark on our memories.

This sister, however, had made music a delight to her pupils, opening up a world

formerly unexplored. More than that, she filled life with laughter. How

could anyone forget her?