Perception is reality . . . or is it?

Suppose several of us witnessed something horrific, like a train crash say, or perhaps a road accident.

And if we were all asked, several weeks later, to write an account of what we'd seen, do you think all of these accounts would be identical? And if not, would one be the truth and the others lies?

Or would each simply represent differing interpretations of the same reality viewed from differing perspectives by different people?

Looking back at my life as a teenager I very clearly saw myself in those days as insignificant and lacking in either personalty or confidence: a Mr Cellophane character, noticed at best by no one, at worst, overlooked by all. Over the years I've grown past that early adolescent image of myself (or at least, learned various coping mechanisms to mask it), but perception was reality and beneath the mask, I knew beyond doubt that I was a social failure.

With this knowledge lodged firmly at the forefront of my mind, and my most confident smile masking my insecurity, I headed off for the Class of 59 reunion: trying hard to blend unseen into the atmosphere of the cocktail lounge (read gymnasium).


Conversations I was apart of usually went something like this . . . .

“Smith " (name changed to protect my anonymity) you old b#&^*rd' you haven't changed a bit. I'd have recognised you anywhere!

Remember the time . . . “, and then would follow a story full of life and punctuated with humour. A story I would recognise, but one in which I'd seen myself as the monochrome coloured extra rather than the center stage star of this action packed replay of someone else's memory of my past. A story where the facts were all there, but not quite as I had remembered them.

Clearly their recollection of our childhood days were at odds with mine, so one of us must have the wrong end of the stick. Or did we?

Could it be the same reality viewed from differing perspectives by different people?

But if so, which was the correct version, theirs, or mine? I certainly preferred theirs: but perhaps they were just as surprised by my remembrances of them? Perhaps their adolescent self image was about as shaky as mine?

Anyway several such encounters, and a glass or two of wine later, I felt myself walking noticeably taller, with a definite spring in my step and humming the old school victory song.

Reunions, I've decided, are a great opportunity to re write some of those old scripts that for some of us, are still running our lives 50 years on .