LEICESTER, England — With time, they no longer seem like memories. They are too strange, too difficult to explain. They feel, instead, like hallucinatory flashbacks from some fever dream.
The butchers who paid tribute through the medium of sausage; the pilgrimage of the van driver from North London, drawn to a city he did not know, compelled to find a wall on which to paint a mural; the story of the television personality who appeared on screen naked save for a pair of crisp, white boxers.
With time, an air of unreality has settled on it all.