The execution of precious memories. What does this mean? I didn't know. Although I've wanted to see this performance since I first read the specifications for it at the Bargeld Entertainment website, although I've read descriptions of other performances of this, in Sweden and in Cameroon, I had no idea of what to expect. I must have been expecting something because I do know that I wasn't expecting what I saw in the Queen Elizabeth Hall. And I do know that what I saw there filled me with tender joy and wonderment, love for humanity. Don't let the word "precious" fool you, these memories were precious in the true sense of the word, not fey or twee. This was a play about humanity, about the worlds that we live in and store in our minds, carrying them with us; never static, always works-in-progress, submerging and being refound, rewritten: hypotheses waiting to be disproven. To see this play was to be caressed by memory, to enter a place where a strange, fluid, free-associative conversation was taking place, where people spoke their minds without fear or objection. It left me speechless, and it is difficult to write about even now. Perhaps, in the spirit of the piece, I should offer you a memory of my own, not from the piece, that I have remembered and forgotten many times over the years. I had forgotten it again until I was standing in the afterglow of the performance, trying to comprehend what I had just seen, what it was like, what it had reminded me of. I am 9 years old, wearing a pinafore with a floral design, walking through a large greenhouse towards the exit when suddenly I hear all the grown ups around me laughing and feel my mothers hand on my arm, restraining me from moving. I feel a pinprick on my skin, and look down to see a hummingbird, its wings a blur, trying to insert its beak into one of the flowers on my dress...

Or maybe I should begin by explaining how this performance came to be. This was one of a series of performances which have taken place, and will take place, in different locations all over the world, each following the same guidelines; but each uniquely crafted to the material supplied by the host country. Before the performance anonymous questionnaires are sent out in the language of the host country, asking people to respond to fifty detailed questions enquiring about memories, of childhood, of nature, of sex, of religion, of consciousness, of dreams, they consider to be precious. These responses are analysed by Blixa Bargeld and assembled into a performance reflecting the memories shared with him. The performance is given in the language of the host country, and with the help of performers from that country. In this performance in London, there were five speakers; Diana Payne Myers, Lulu Norman, Melanie Pappenheim, Rob Riley, and Blixa Bargeld, and three musicians; Simon Fisher Turner, Richard Sanderson, and Andrei Samsonov. The speakers and Richard Sanderson sat at a long table, with Simon Fisher Turner and Andrei Samsonov close at hand.

Blixa Bargeld read out the questions in his deep, rich voice and the speakers answered him both individually and in unison, each throwing another precious memory into the air, so that they fell in drifts on the audience. And the audience caught them, and threw them back up into the air with delighted laughs of recognition, recognition of our own memories, of memories that could have been our own, of the many truths spoken that night, and of the value of these small tableaux of life. At times it seemed as if there were no performers, as if the memories were coming directly from the audience itself, then falling upon ourselves, as if we could all hear each others thoughts. This rising and falling of memory was perfectly accentuated by the music, a sweetly fluid composition from piano, electronics, clarinet and toys, that rose at the end of each passage, before the next question was asked. As the memories fell into place with each other despite their disparate origins and moods, so did the music, with the rattle and squeak of the toys complementing the sweet low tones of the clarinet, each adding to the power of the other. The five speakers spoke with disparate voices, but not voices strange to one another; Diana Payne Myers' gentle cultured tones blending with Rob Riley's laddishness and Blixa Bargeld's urbanity, to illustrate what psychology has shown time and time again: that though we are all unique, we are all unique in the same ways, and much more similar to each other than we care to believe. This was a collective consciousness.

The rhythm of the piece was constantly shifting, jumping, tumbling, always maintaining perfect timing. It is hard to imagine that this was scripted and rehearsed in only a few days; but it was, and the success of this piece is a tribute to the talent and hard work of all involved. Not that it looked like hard work, but it takes an enormous amount of effort to create something so free flowing, so natural. Measured questioning collecting flurries of brief memories, jagged memories, the bawdy, the tender, the hard nosed, the prosaic, the awe-struck and the awe-inspiring. Each memory made its imprint on the piece, each memory shifted the pace, created its own space where it could be spoken with its own voice, could be heard and valued as, and for, itself. There were memories of a three year old's trip on a rowing boat, an eighteen month old's experience of a Sex Pistols gig, a baby's grumpy puzzlement, playing by a stream, a broken home, being tucked in by mother and then secretly masturbating in bed, holidays in the countryside with parents, a long and richly evocative memory of dawn breaking in Africa, full of the sights, sounds and smells of Africa coming alive in the morning and of yearning to experience this again. Memories of being in a room with two uncaged eagles, a girl's astonishment at seeing her boyfriend's come for the first time, a quick shag against the goalpost in a field by the local pub, being visited by an angel, apologising to staff before fainting in hospital, of turning a bus around in a country lane... All these and more were flooding through the Queen Elizabeth Hall, reminding us of what we are made.

The finale took my breath away. A gasp of astonishment, followed by an awe-struck stillness. Blixa Bargeld got up from his seat at the centre of the table, and went over to the piano, where he played the theme of the piece with strong, fluid grace. And Diana Payne Myers got up from her seat at the far end of the table and walked before the table to stand centre stage. She began to dance: skipping rope, turning cartwheels, running and jumping... This *was* memory. An old woman, with a strong body and her hair in bunches, remembering in her dance all the things that we did as children, and did for real, in the joy of the moment, never imagining that they would one day be looked back on by an older version of the self, seen through memory. It reminded me of my octogenarian grandmother telling me of the shock she felt every time someone called her an old woman, or invited her to join in activities for the elderly. All of her brightest, clearest, memories are of her youth, and so she is young until someone reminds her that she is not. As Diana Payne Myers' dance finished, she and Blixa Bargeld returned to their seats, and the five speakers spoke in unison: "Memory is a hypothesis, waiting to be disproved."