Ever since I didn't die on a trolley in the Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield, and a surgeon made an inspired guess, drilled into my head to let the pressure out and my squashed brain began to re-expand, my memory isn't so good.
"Like a sieve" is apt - most of the events, faces and details of the day just run through it. What catches and sticks is ordinary, and precious. Glimpses of the day - two squirrels pursuing each other round a tree in a glimmering grey double helix, Leo flipping his trilby up along his arm onto his head and flashing a grin before setting off to school, the bone-white new moon in a blue-black permanent sky when I lock up the shed - they remain, glittering flakes in the bottom of the sieve.
Songs and their words, those I can remember without effort. Even the ones I don't like stick. Poems, likewise. And there are some holes on some golf courses that I can still walk myself through any time. A strikingly high proportion of those holes are on Shiskane.
-Andrew Greig, Preferred Lies: A Journey to the Heart of Scottish Golf
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