Memory is a funny thing. It is possible to put something down in one room and then completely forget that you had done so. And yet I can recall very specific events from my, say, early in my schooling days. Perhaps it's the importance we attach to such things that matters most, allowing the mind to develop it's own hierarchy of memories.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I had thought that I had bought a particular volume of Thomas Hardy's poetry only to be a total loss as to where it was. Being a recent event made this even more perplexing, so I began to second-guess myself and consider the idea that I had dreamt the purchase. After all, I could find no record of having bought it, nor could I find the book.

So I bought another online. Just before it arrived I was looking through my library when I noticed the spine of a book that had fallen to the back and was barely visible. Yes, you guessed correctly. It was the Hardy poetry book.

Is there a lesson in this other than the fact that I now have a copy of this wonderful poet to share with someone else?