Let me tell you the rat story.  15 years ago, we had just moved house, I was heavily pregnant and alone when a rat wandered past me and slowly sauntered up the stairs. I think I screamed and jumped onto a chair and stayed there, frozen for five minutes.  Eventually, I gained the courage to reach for the yellow pages (remember those?) I called a pest control chap and waited (still stood on my chair, of course).

A little later, this god-like figure appeared.  Now his guy was all anyone could want from a pest control man, he was perfect.

So, my hero went off armed with only my broom (a retro technique I thought).  After what sounded like quite the scuffle, he reappeared, the broom was now broken in two and the rat was lying dead in our side return. As I said, this guy was god-like.

A few months later I’m with my best mate and our chums and she starts telling the story; my story about the rat, in great detail. I'm bemused and point out that she wasn't actually there. She is floored, totally floored. In her memory, she and I were in my new house together, so it's her story too. So, what really happened, was she there? I don’t know.

So, when I was asked the other day whether storytellers always recalled events accurately, I can not really be the judge of that, after all, memory is a funny thing and we all recall so differently.

But I do know this. When my storytellers share their stories, they share their version of events, which is generally their truth.  Sometimes they share a version of events that they would like to be true or the version that they would like to pass on. 

I ask questions, I gently probe, but I don't disagree or contradict, it is their story to tell in their words, and I think that is enough.

So, here is a picture of me, shortly after the rat incident.