The Sarah Collection and a Sort of Time Shift.

I met another Sarah yesterday. I’m collecting them you know, like some people collect stamps or Matisse paintings or cornflakes shaped like the Virgin Mary with a hat on. I’ve known quite a few Sarahs in my life and they’ve all had some form of notable effect on me (some good, some bad, mostly good.) That’s why a little white light flashes on and off every time somebody says ‘my name is Sarah.’ (As long as it’s a woman, that is. If a man said it the light would be a different colour.)

I said: ‘You do know, I suppose, that the name comes from the Hebrew for princess’? ‘I do,’ she replied. So that was yesterday’s put down. But then she went on to say that she wasn’t overly fond of the name. ‘It’s a bit ordinary,’ she said ruefully. I disagreed, of course, explaining that the Sarahs I’d known had always been a little extraordinary, one way or another. And any name which causes lights to flash has to have something going for it.

She could have offered: ‘But that’s just personal to you.’ (But she didn’t.) And then I could have said: ‘Think yourself lucky. There was a girl in my class in high school called Ethel Onions. Imagine going through life having to repeat ad nauseum: “My name is Ethel Onions” every time you enquired about a missing parcel or got hauled in by the police for some misdemeanour.’ I could even have told her the story of how young Ethel once vomited in class shortly after lunch, and how I saw a part-digested piece of sprout roll under my desk. She would probably have wrinkled her pretty nose (her nose is rather pretty, actually, if any nose could ever be so complemented) and said: ‘Yuck! That’s so gross.’ And I could have replied: ‘Not really. Not as long as I didn’t pick it up and eat it.’ And then the conversation would have reached a natural hiatus because she would have been rushing off to the toilet to repeat Ethel’s involuntary projection.

Yesterday was clearly a day of missed opportunities. They happen.

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Tonight I had an odd yen to hear Frank Sinatra sing, so I found Nice ‘n Easy on YouTube and listened to it. My consciousness flew straight back to my childhood in Eaveswood Road, Abbey Hulton. It was Sunday lunchtime again. And Christmas Day. And hot fires in the living room on cold winter nights. And watching either BBC or ITV on the television because there were only two channels back then. And life was so much more settled, simple, and stress free. Whether that’s because times have changed or because I’m not quite a child any more – at least not officially – I don’t really know.

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(Would it be redundant of me, I wonder, to mention that one particular Sarah is immovably ensconced in prime position on page one of the collection? I suppose it probably would.)