One of my weekly postings for university was a short autobiographical piece. I think it’s cute, so thought I’d share it. After writing this piece we were asked to consider if we were the same person writing the story as living it and what affects the re-telling of a life, or part of a life. Anyway, I won’t drone on and on. I hope you enjoy finding out a little bit of when I was little :).

How I Remember it

I don’t know what I was thinking: I was only three. My parents say now that I just wanted to show the other kids. Looking back, I suppose they’re right. The day I remember as being sunny, the horse brown, and the rubber tree in our front suburban garden, big and shady. My memories don’t come from my experiences of that day: they come from a photograph.

The snippet I think I remember is standing in a paddock of green—a neighbourhood park without the usual condiments of swings and slippery-dips. Holding the rope, and by association, the racehorse, I felt excited to have the other kids crowding around to see and pat the animal. His name was Bully, his racing name Zatopek. I, of course, always called him Bully.

Out of all the horses my father owned, he was my favourite and was visiting from ‘The Farm’. This story lives on in my memory because I’ve heard it recounted by my parents, although I do retain flashbacks from the day. I’m proud of my three-year-old self, who, with constant enthusiasm, was always creating predicaments to scare my parents half to death. Untying a racehorse, crossing two streets and putting the potentially dangerous animal within kicking distance of other, innocent children was not reckless or naughty: it was fun. At least that’s how I remember it.

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