Isn't it funny how some memories lie dormant in your mind for years, then, without warning they resurface with such ferocity that you are surprised you ever forgot?
It happened to me recently.
I suppose it's an age thing. You settle into a mundane lifestyle, where one day is indiscernible from the one before it. The things that seemed important when you were young fade into the background, and are replaced by grown-up matters. Mortgages, deadlines, traffic reports.
Funnily enough, it was traffic reports that jolted a dead memory back to life.
It's become a routine now that Andy and I listen to the traffic reports at 3.30pm everyday. Andy sits at the desk opposite me, and has done for the last five years. We've developed our own little daily routine. He makes morning coffee Tuesday and Thursday, I buy the beers every second Friday. That sort of thing.
So anyway, we're sitting listening to the traffic report, hearing the usual doom and gloom. Great Western Road is clogged up right back to Anniesland, Kingston Bridge is straining under the weight of lorries and buses. We're looking at severe tailbacks here.
And then, Andy says: "You know Steve, the Dutch have the right idea."
"Eh?"
"The Dutch. You know, cycling everywhere."
"S'pose."
"Did you know that in Amsterdam, cyclists have the right of way over motor vehicles?"
"Is that so."
"Yep."
And then I remembered.
It was back in 1983. My Dad was working as an engineer on an Oil Tanker that was docked in Rotterdam. He'd been at sea for almost five months, and this was the closest he'd been to home so he and my Mum had decided that we would go and visit him for a few days. I was only six years old at the time, so it was one big fantastic adventure.
We had been in Rotterdam for a few days, when my Dad was given some extra shore leave. They decided to take some time out in Amsterdam, which was only a few hours by train.
I don't remember that much about the city itself. From my height, everything seemed to be just above eye-level. Mum was running from shop to shop, with a reluctant Dad trailing me along behind, promising that we would get an ice-cream "after the next shop".
I don't remember exactly how I got lost. Maybe it was the crowds cutting me off from my Dad, maybe something distracted me, all I know is one minute I was standing next to my Dad, the next minute he was gone.
It's a dreadful feeling, being lost. Even now, I get agitated if I lose my friends on a night out, but at six years old I was inconsolable. I remember people staring at me, unable to understand the garbled pleas for help.
And then someone picked me up.
I can't quite believe that I forgot about this, as it seems so vivid to me now.
He was a tall man. Fair-haired, friendly faced. I remember the cream coloured coat, particularly the red stripes running down the lapels. His voice was so reassuring that I stopped crying almost immediately.
"Hello there," he said, smiling at me. "What's your name?"
"Steven."
"Well now Steven, what are all the tears for?"
A young woman appeared at the man's side. She looked very concerned, and almost impatient.
The man carried on talking to me.
"Are you lost, Steven?"
I nodded, tearfully.
The woman was pulling at the man's coat sleeve. "Come on Doctor, we don't have time for this!"
The man looked at her, quite sternly. He said her name. Neesha? Nivva? I can't quite remember.
"Okay Steven. Not to worry."
The man hoisted me up on to his shoulders. For the first time that day I could actually see the people and the buildings properly.
"Can you see your Mum?"
"No, mister."
"Then let's have a look around shall we?"
The man, with me on his shoulders, and the woman, walked through the narrow streets for a while. Every so often the man would ask if I could see my parents, each time I would reply that I couldn't. The woman was pestering the man to find a policeman and let them sort it out, but the man was insistent. She mentioned some important business that had to be dealt with, and talked about aliens. I figured she was mad.
The man never lost his patience, with me or with the woman. He told the woman that sometimes they forgot that helping just one person can be as rewarding as helping many people. The woman didn't seem convinced.
"Steven! Oh Steven!"
I heard my Mum cry out.
"There she is!" I said to the man.
My Mum and Dad rushed over to us and my Dad pulled me down from the man's shoulders.
"Where did you go?" "I told you not to wander off!" "Thank God you're okay!"
The man ruffled my hair and smiled down at me. "There you go Steven."
My Mum smiled at the stranger. "I can't thank you enough." He smiled back, and did this funny little bow. "Glad I could help."
He turned to the woman and said, "Right, back to business."
Then the man and the woman ran off into the crowd.
My Mum and Dad, almost in perfect unison, muttered "Weirdos."
***
"Mind you, I wouldn't fancy cycling to work everyday in this bloody weather, eh Steve?"
