The title of this post comes from the opening scene in the original shooting script of Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí’s silent short film, Un chien Andalou.
Shake hands all round, collect the money. Bemoan your own shooting, congratulate someone else on theirs. Walk to the car, assessing joints for aches beyond your usual level of tolerance, calves for the likely onset of cramp, and the whole of your body for bruises. Put the balls in the boot. Get in the car, take out your lenses and replace them with your glasses so you can better see where you’re going. Put on some music, most likely something softly introspective after all that hard running, Sandy Denny or Gene Clark, say; the Ramones were for psyching you up on the outward journey. Turn right out of the car park onto the road into the centre of the village. Take a sharp left at the first of the double roundabouts, trying not to kerb the tyres as you usually do. Pass the village hall and the social club on your right, the more unlikely pairing of the art supplies and fish and chip shops on your left, then further on, the castellated Catholic church with its white marble statue of the Virgin Mary standing on a crenellated platform. All the while, review the game in your head – what you could have done better than you did (plenty), and how you could have avoided that haze of red mist (deep breaths, and count. To. Fucking. Ten next time). Settle for longer than perhaps is healthy on your one moment of glory, a sweetly-struck shot from distance that bent into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Mentally opine that even Paul Scholes might have proud of that one.
Go over the bridge that crosses the dual carriageway, looking to the left and into the far distance for the progress of the setting sun, incidentally taking in how thick the traffic is on the road to which you have lost more hours of your life than you would like. Slow for the right turn which takes you into the narrow lanes of the cross-country way home – what your daughter used to call ‘the den-y way’. Now you are into the thick of greenery which rises from each side of the road like a wall, until a grassy meadow opens out on the left-hand side. It’s dotted with trees, and at times during the year, cows. Through it runs a stream, swift and shallow and gurgling. Stream and road meet at the bare minimum of a stone bridge, where once, before Tarmacadam, there would have been a ford. Look to your left here, to take in that gurgling stream, and the way it leads the eye through the trees and into the meadow, suggesting summer picnics, or at least that you stop and lie in the bosom of its long grass and soft turf to daydream for a while.
Just after the bridge, pass a couple walking their two dogs – whippets, by the look of them. The woman has auburn hair; the man’s sandy wisps inevitably seem somewhat nondescript in comparison. Slow, so as to be ready for any sudden movement of the dogs. Let the couple linger in your mind as you drive on, imagining the life they might lead together. The road bends this way and that, following the course of the stream, so do not go above 30 mph in case you need to brake suddenly, either for cars coming the other way, or – unusually – for frogs, since on this stretch of road, there is the only red-bordered triangular caution sign for amphibians that you have ever come across. But you have never spotted nor knowingly squashed one.
Slow down again to pass the narrow house which sits alone on its own triangular island in the middle of a junction, and keep at the same speed for the row of houses whose doors open out onto the narrow road. Watch for the white cowls of a pair of oast houses over the top of the hedge on the right, before entering the first of the high-banked ancient holloways. Notice again how the roots of the beech trees break out of the bank much as reanimated skeletons might out of the rotting wood of coffins, and how their ivy-covered limbs rise close together to create the sense of enclosure; shelter or captivity depending on your mood.
Emerge from the darkness to pass the beautiful farmhouse, the stream acting as its moat. Where the way forks, keep high and right as the other alternative drops away to the left, the wending river visible between the two roads. Feel the motion and blur of glinting water and sun-dappled greenery hit your retinas. Imagine how many millions of individual leaves you are passing, and let the cow parsley which crowds the verges take you back to cycling the country roads of your childhood.
Pass the entrance to a larger working farm on your right. A little further along, a bungalow stands on the left-hand side, with pasture for horses opposite. Then once again it’s back into holloway darkness, the old way-turned-road running roughly straight, but veering and weaving as once the trees will have dictated that countless generations of walkers and riders should. Walkers and riders who had a purpose to their walking and riding.
And now here again the road emerges from the enclosing trees; over the top of a five bar gate, the sky opens out above the fields like a fanfare or a crescendo. Slow to take in the colours of the sunset, and if they are at all out of the ordinary, stop to take a photo. See the disturbed rabbits scamper away as you get out of the car. Sheep are grazing in the field; all but the closest to you pay you no mind. Climb a couple of rungs of the gate and brace yourself against it. Depress the touch-screen button on your phone and hope that you’ve caught even half of the sky’s resplendence.
Drive on, continuing straight for a few hundred metres, then remember to slow for the hidden-from-view right turn; it’s easy to overshoot. After the farm on the left, it’s time to enter the deepest, darkest, sleepiest sleepy hollow of holloway, where you hope not to encounter a car coming the other way, for after a moment of face-off, one of you will be forced to back up, often for some distance before being able to reverse-sidle into a passing place dug out of the banked earth. Startled birds break cover and dart from one side of the hollow to the other, too quick to distinguish their species, and always making the other side before the car passes. On the canopied tunnel goes, a ridge of hardened mud formed during the winter lining the centre of the road, until coming to a sharp left-hand bend, you must necessarily slow to nothing much at all; once around it, accelerate to compensate for the rising plane of the road. At the top of the rise, a driveway opens out on the left; the entrance to the grounds of a nursing home. The break in the trees allows you a quick glance at the view that the residents enjoy at their leisure, across the gentle slopes of the valley through which runs the little stream you were following earlier. It’s an archetypally glorious green and pleasant view and invariably when you catch a glimpse of it, you remember the time you ignored the ‘PRIVATE’ signs, turned in and parked up to try and surreptitiously capture it, though in your hurry you did not manage to do the view justice.
Now it’s the downhill run, your car a bobsleigh through the ice of the close-pressing trees. If the way is clear, it’s hard to avoid the temptation to take it a little faster than you ought, the ghost of Marc Bolan always a caution at your shoulder. At other times of day, it has to be taken slowly, for invariably then you will meet and need to stop for horses, their stables marking the end of the bobsleigh run. At which point, a left turn would take you past the stately pile where a classic rock song and its host album were recorded, but you swing slowly round the blind corner to the right and begin to make a slight ascent, taking care to avoid losing your front left-hand wheel to the worst pothole in the whole of the county, if not the country. Now there’s another downhill run, but this time of two cars’ width, so you can take it at greater speed than the rest of the journey has allowed. Pass the wooden chalet-style house with its summer evening porch, and the driveways leading up the hillside to what you imagine may well be similar woodland-style lodges. Slow for the junction by what in winter is a dank, murky, uninviting swamp of a pond, but which in the last of the light on a summer’s day is transformed into a haven of burnished reeds and a fitting home for a pair of swans. Turn right onto the main road, and accelerate into another ascent, notable less for its housing and more for the beautiful copper beech which gives the road its name. Try as you might not to set off the electronic speed limit reprimand, despite the incline, you will most likely fail.
Turn right at the mini-roundabout by which the garage stands and from which the one-stop shop is visible, and drive along the straight perimeter of the enclave of roads in which your house is set till you get to the pair of bus stops, one on either side of the road; signal right. Turn the right-angle right, and head down the dip, at the bottom of which is another right-angle right into your short, narrow road. No need to signal here at this time of night. Drive slowly up its crest to the end, park up under the shade of the sweet chestnut and oak trees, and turn off the engine. Wait for whichever song of Sandy’s or Gene’s is playing to end, and allow its associations to settle back into the sediment of your mind. Gather yourself and your bag together. Open and close the wrought-iron gate, taking the key to the front door from your bag. The lights are on and you are home.
Words are explosive. Wear protective clothing at all times. Consider the location and the timing of the detonation. Plan your words in advance. Do not approach words after they have been lit in an attempt to discover whether or not they are going to go off. Boys are particularly cautioned not to experiment by opening sentences and mixing their constituent parts. High winds will affect the quality of your words and may create a hazard. Do not launch your words in excessively windy conditions. Keep a pail of water handy and be sure to dispose of left-over words with care. Do not smoke on the forecourt of your words. Caution: do not mix your metaphors – the results can be extremely volatile. Do not drink and write. Keep your words in safe, dry, well-ventilated storage facilities with 24 hour CCTV monitoring.
Words are spiritual. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. But that was just the beginning. The inquisitorial ferocity of Jesuitical words is unmatched, especially when combined with the rack. Hellfire sermons are likely to leave the impressionable vulnerable to night-time fear and daytime paranoia. Atheists will burn, before or after their deaths. Or not, as the case may be. Prayers are words, and words are prayers, but can you ever really be sure that anyone is listening? Except in exceptional circumstances, resist the desire to self-immolate in the flare and burn of your own words.
Words are a legal minefield. Do not confuse tort with torte; the results can be embarrassing, and you may be left with egg on your face. Voicing words without forethought can bring out the litigious side in people. Malice aforethought’s not much better. Oaths can be sworn to whichever god anyone follows. Or not, as the case may be. Jurisprudence is no guarantee of prudent juries. As we have seen, in some parts of the world, words are inquisitorial, while in others they are adversarial. Defendants may find that they prefer the latter, though it is wise to try to avoid appearing before a hanging judge.
Words are seductive. Beware those possessing silver tongues yet no gold in their heart. Make sure your linguistic inoculations are up-to-date and mind your Ps, Qs and apostrophes. Careless reading can leave your mind open to suggestion, your heart aflame, and may cost lives in times of war. Always use a prophylactic. Squeeze the tip, then unroll along the length of your sentence. Withdraw before it goes flaccid. Do not panic when you can no longer find the words. There may be many reasons – the vast majority temporary – as to why you cannot achieve a successful sentence construction. The condition usually responds well to a combination of lifestyle changes, drug treatment and erotic poetry.
We are sitting down to Christmas dinner, 1971, the now nuclear family of two parents and two children (my sister would not enter the scene for another three years) plus my maternal grandfather and the sweet, innocent soul he married in his early sixties. For the duration of my early childhood, I had three grandmothers.
I am three and a half, my brother nearly two. While I concentrate hard on the eating to be done, he is much more fascinated by the camera. My grandfather seems to have got used to its presence, overcoming the discomfort you could see that he felt at my christening in film 10. My parents have had the camera for about three years, and have gone some little way to mastering the art of interior lighting for Super 8 film, though even then, half of this reel seems to be illuminated merely by fairy- and candlelight.
The main course is on the table. Chocolates, candied fruit, and Christmas crackers await our pleasure. Glasses are raised in a toast, ‘Merry Christmas everyone!’ I too have a little cut-glass of something, I’m not quite sure what. Lemon cordial, perhaps. Surely not wine, though my reaction to its contents suggests that it might be. (This was after the incident when aged two I drank whisky from a tumbler that my father had carelessly left on the bedroom floor, provoking a case of early onset delirium tremens, or at least a delirium in which I saw pink elephants dancing on my mother’s shoulders.) I imagine the afternoon passed in something of a haze for me, after the wired buzz of the alcohol or lemon cordial wore off.
The tree is heartbreakingly spindly and ethereal compared to the thick, fat brushes of the fir we have this year. Somehow it manages to seem both austere and gaudy at one and the same time, with its baubles and strands of silver, lantern lights, golden tinsel, concertina tinfoil, and a dimly shining star at its crown.
My father mugs silent-film-style at the camera, raises a belated glass. The shades of his golfing jumpers have taken a turn for the worse, into garishly primary colours. The smart, short back and sides of the sixties have turned into something more relaxed, more ineffably seventies. He could take to the park with Peter Osgood of Chelsea, sporting that look. See you in the bar after, Ossie.
And look what I got for Christmas and am modelling outdoors at the driving range – a cowboy outfit. And what an outfit! I’m not sure even Gram Parsons would have dared go this much further past the embroidered, rhinestone-heavy suits that Nudie Cohn made for him. Red chaps with blue batwings, a decorative blue and black waistcoat and a ten-gallon hat, and of course the obligatory holster and gun without which no suburban cowboy boy of the seventies would be seen dead. Somewhat more colourful too than what I imagine Wyatt Earp wore for the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral. Watch me swagger down the mean streets of not Tombstone, but Cobham, laying waste to all the good-for-nothings I find there. Curiously my brother is dressed not as a native American, but a twenties-era New York City cop, or possibly a turn of the century British bobby. Note the giant golf balls on tees in the background. Perfect cover for the sheriff looking to take down a few outlaws.
The reel cuts to another day, most likely Boxing Day, with the extended family gathered at my paternal grandmother’s house. My cousins and I encircle the table, on which there is an as yet untouched Christmas cake and a big bowl of jelly. The aunts and uncles look on as we eat our cold turkey, picking their food from an extensive spread set out on a side table. The eldest cousin is wearing a tie. We are still bound by a formality which the course of my life will slowly break. If we could live through those early Christmases again, how much would we feel has changed, in comparison with now? I guess in many respects, a lot. The excessive materiality of Christmas, certainly. The technology which surrounds us, obviously. But in others, perhaps nothing much at all. Families gather, a majority still eat turkey (though perhaps not the heavily iced fruitcake), the year turns and the endlessly magical Christmases of childhood are before you know it past and gone, except in memory and the frames of an old reel of Super 8 film.
This reel is book-ended by me tottering about like a very young drunk, initially in a blue romper suit (‘you look like a Smurf,’ says my daughter, not unreasonably), but chiefly I’m posting this one for its golfing action.
My father was a golf professional, as was his younger brother. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, they ran a driving range where the fringes of London meet Surrey. In summer, Dad would teach six days a week. He also played tournaments too, with varying degrees of success, once getting written up in the Daily Mirror as ‘003 and a half’, owing to a passing resemblance to the James Bond of the time, Sean Connery (and possibly some knowledge on the part of the reporter of other Bond-like behaviour, but let’s gloss over that here). I now live not a million miles from where I grew up, and if I pass a golf course round these parts, it’s a sure-fire bet that he has played it at least once, if not many times.
The film shows 003 and a half (and briefly his brother) resplendent in golfing browns hitting balls at the driving range, first with an iron, and then a wood. I hope he won’t mind me saying that rather like footage of football from the same era, the pace of his swing looks slower than that displayed on television by today’s top pros – less physically and technologically primed. But technically, I imagine you can tell a lot about his game from these recorded shots. He certainly keeps his head nice and still. No doubt he would have watched the film back, to assess his own technique, to see what could be worked on and improved. I recall him telling me that while he could hit the ball a long way, relative to his slender physique, his short game wasn’t sufficiently good to raise him higher up the professional ranks.
Again, for reasons I won’t labour here, it wasn’t until I was pushing forty and Dad was retired that I took my first golf lesson from him. He has always had the gift of the gab, and now here he was finally putting it to use to correct my many faults as a golfer, which he was quick to point out I couldn’t yet call myself. At prolonged times in my own professional life, I have myself acted as a teacher, so I know a little about what it takes to win people over, to get them to trust your word, and then to follow it. Enthusiasm, authority, patience, humour, demonstrable results. It’s not easy, especially if you are not naturally possessed of the gift of the gab. But as I also remember witnessing occasionally when I was a boy, Dad made it look effortless, couching his rudeness about my recalcitrant swing in a fostering bed of humour, optimism, and reconstructive surgery. Judging by the end result – a vast improvement in the course of just a couple of lessons – he still knew exactly what he was doing. I don’t imagine he was any different with me than with the thousands of people he taught in his working life. I couldn’t help comparing his style of teaching with that of the contemporary professional who gave me a series of lessons at around the same time; his demeanour was weary, his methods lacked conviction, and psychologically he never made me feel anywhere close to a million dollars over such progress as I was making.
Golf was never my sport, very possibly because I am a contrary type and it was my father’s, and so closed to me. But at a time in middle life when there weren’t many other sporting options open to me, I felt a compulsion to give it a go. And though I doubt I’ll ever make my way round all or even some of the courses he played on hereabouts, I’ll always be glad that I belatedly got to have a couple of lessons from an undeniably great teacher.
My father lent the Super 8 movie camera to his eldest brother, and in the late 1960s, they took it on holiday to Menton, in the south of France. Accompanying them were my paternal grandparents, and my aunt and uncle’s adopted son, Michael.
Michael was a year or two older than me, but he is no longer with us. I don’t know enough of the path his life took nor of his interior to presume to tell the story of his early death, but even now, I miss his life-and-soul presence at family dos. In boyhood he was the cousin to whom I was closest, and alongside our respective younger brothers, we spent long hours playing at soldiers in our respective gardens. In early teenage years I remember him having copies of a couple of seven inch records that I coveted – ‘Absolute beginners’ and ‘Love will tear us apart’ – but after that we met too infrequently to know anything substantial about each other’s life, times or indeed struggles. Having brought three children of his own into the world, his death was a shock. Shocking in its abruptness, and shocking in its finality. How much more so for those who knew him so much better than me.
Here he is simply a happy, two year old boy playing on a French beach, loved by parents and grandparents alike. He has made the acquaintance of a German boy of the same age, and he is absorbed in back and forth bucket and spade activity. In another scene, his father lies on a lilo with Michael atop his chest, while in what looks to be one of the more staged shots, against a backdrop of photogenic bougainvillea, he walks between his mother and grandmother, holding their hands as the elder of the two women admires the flowers. Much less staged is the camera catching his bottom being wiped.
The holiday looks to have been as beautiful as any in the south of France should. The coastline – the way the houses are set into the hillside – has the look of Italy about it (and indeed, Menton was once part of the Republic of Genoa). My uncle adds to the stylish feel by sporting the same kind of Fred Perry cotton pique short-sleeve shirt that I took to wearing when I was roughly the same age as he is in this footage. Top button done up, as fashion dictated.
At home after the holiday, they find an English summer nearly as hot as the one they left behind. While the poodle eats treats standing on the selfsame lilo, Michael runs the length of his grandparents’ garden. That life-and-soul joy of later years is already writ large on his little face.
Here we have a parade of relatives of every hue, from great aunts to cousins, many still living, a number dead, and one or two estranged. These are the faces of people with whom lives were spent, or by whom two generations were raised, returned to youth or brought back to life through their having been captured on 10th August 1969 in three and a half minutes of silent Super 8 footage.
A christening is an occasion, third only to weddings and funerals. Best suits and poshest dresses – worn to longer or shorter lengths depending on generation and daring – are donned, along with a variety of styles of hat. One grandmother is turned out like the Queen mother; another goes hatless, wears a white knee-length dress, stops to talk and smile into the camera, and takes photos of the party assembled outside the church afterwards.
It’s my christening, to be precise. Predominantly because it was the done thing then, rather than as a result of any strong convictions on my parents’ part, I am being inducted into a faith I no longer have, that did not make it past childhood. But I still have the bible my youngest uncle and godparent gave me that day. I spent a lot of time leafing through its thin pages as a child, fascinated more by its clean, simple line drawings of an ancient, biblical world than by the Word of the Lord. Exposure to three different religions as I was schooled, and more critically a sense that if there were a God, he had decided not to keep his eye on my family, meant that whatever faith being christened conferred upon me was lost by the age of twelve or thirteen. I remember then standing my ground one Sunday morning and telling my mother that I was not going to church again.
It seems that All Saints’ Church is close enough to our New Haw house that everyone is walking to it. My paternal grandfather waves a ‘hail fellow, well met’ greeting to camera from across the street. And standing out from the footage much less, there is my maternal grandfather, tall, grey-haired, black glasses, looking somewhat socially stiff and a little apart, certainly not at all keen to be centre-stage or filmed.
In among the older generation of relatives are my father and two of his brothers, sharp in suits, thin ties and sideburns. By a process of elimination, the eldest of the four brothers was the one tasked with filming proceedings. And he captures it all. Elderly great-aunts wear elderly great-aunt spectacles. My maternal great-grandmother, whose face has slipped, presumably because of a stroke. Outside the church, jokes are shared and smoke is puffed into the sky. His job of bringing a new soul into the fold done, we even see the vicar walking off down the road, garments flapping in the summer breeze. It’s a shame that he didn’t take the chance to dance off into the distance in the manner of Eric and Ernie at the end of their TV show, legs and arms alternately hoicked out to either side.
The tallest man in Britain at the time also seems to have attended (best observed standing next to my mother in her white sun hat at 2:23), for extra propitiousness. I thank him for that, and all my relatives, the living and the dead, for being there for me that day.
Any mystique which still adheres to the A wild slim alien persona will be quite gone after this.
I am not embarrassed about the clothes I am wearing in this film. The embarrassment should lie fairly and squarely with my mother – alright, and perhaps the times – for making a two year old child wear such terrible clothing. In my braces, checked shirt, nappy-filled blue shorts and long white socks, I look like Humpty Dumpty given a proper pair of legs and a pudding bowl of hair. The mod in me rebels at the sight, even now.
It’s my party and I’ll run around like a headless chicken if I want to. But before I do, there is the birthday tea, with all the celebrants gathered round the table, their mothers seated behind them. The children seem puzzled and uncertain, as befits two year olds, an age when life is mysterious and confounding as well as bright and bold and butterfly-strewn. Save for my own, the mothers avoid responding to the camera as it passes over them. None will be used to being filmed, of course, but perhaps there is a social insecurity there too. Or maybe it’s simply that they are all still very young themselves, brought up in an age where higher education was still not the norm for women, and for each of them, character and confidence will only fully emerge with whatever challenges and troubles lie ahead.
The friend in the enviably à la mode striped t-shirt (not dissimilar to one I had twenty years later) is my best friend in those years, Graham, who was born in the same hospital three days after me to (I think) the woman we see talking most volubly around the table, holding his sister. It was tragically only a couple of years later that his mother died, and it strikes me now that this (and what there is on other reels) may just be the only moving footage which exists of her. The boy without a top is my next best friend Adam, whose family emigrated to Australia a few short years later. Before that, he and I played football endlessly with each other; I remember still that he was quicker and better than me. You see us both take our first steps as footballers in this film.
Given a choice between a flash red sports car and the broom, Graham opts for the witches’ implement. In fact, strangely, no-one seems to want to play with the flash red sports car, which looks for all the world like my big birthday present, one of which I have no memory save for its being captured here. We are at the age when children are happier with sticks and balls and wheelbarrows.
June sunlight and shade play across the garden and the house, evoking the quickness of life but also eerily suggesting the certainty of death. A friend has commented that these films are crying out for a Boards of Canada soundtrack; I’d maybe split the footage half and half between the ethereal, mind-bending music of the Boards, and the elegiac sounds and memory-haunted, past-is-a-foreign-country lyrics of the Clientele, but then that’s precisely the reason I’ve added no sound, because the viewer will bring their own music to the images, to the colours and objects and the wash of the film, to the peculiarly strong taste of childhood sensations that these images evoke. That time of life when senses are so susceptible to colour and noise and smell and feel and taste, because they are green, fresh, unblemished, and ready to soak up life like a sponge.
What a head of hair I had. What energy I had. Already on the run, aged two.
It’s a world older than the late 1960s, when this reel of film was shot. A world of horse and cart and wells for water and waves crashing on the rocks of undeveloped coastlines. A battered Citroën 2CV before a petrol station brings us back to the twentieth century. A road sign points in the directions of Maria, Lludi, Inca and Palma. The latter two are enough to tell us that we are in Majorca.
My father sunbathes on the beach, and swats away an insect with a lazy hand, or makes the movement in his sleep. Then we see him showing off his skinny champion flyweight boxer’s physique standing before a barbell, the connecting rod of which is bent, seemingly by the downward force of the weights at either end, and frequent handling. He brings the barbell to his chest, and then, the strain showing on his face, raises it high above his head, arms straight. You think this clean and jerk is slapstick at first, because of the gurning, because of his making it seem an effort when the spheres at either end of the barbell look like they might actually be made of polystyrene. But now my mother tries her luck, and only manages to raise it as high as her knees. The spheres are not in fact made out of polystyrene, but some considerably heavier material – metal or concrete, perhaps. Now my father lifts again, this time deliberately clowning and Charlie Chaplinesque, falling forward under the weight of the barbell till he collapses into the sand, a fistful of which he throws in my mother’s direction. She has another go, sticking out her tongue, and on this occasion at least manages to stand up straight with the barbell supported at her thighs. They look as happy as they are young, and young they certainly are. Young enough to be children of mine now.
Next the reel catches a flock of Majorcan sheep, and a bleached and arid-looking coastal panorama – presumably the Bay of Palma and its surrounding hills – at the end of the sweep of which, the camera briefly settles on my mother, who’s wearing a beige dress and sunglasses, looking like a character out of a Patricia Highsmith novel.
Finally it’s back to the beach, where she smokes, as do the friends to whom the footage cuts. Everybody did. They were much smokier days.
If you follow this series, you’re going to have to get used to random juxtapositions. Footage of dogs chasing each other will suddenly cut to a local shopping trip, as happens here. It is the tail end of the sixties, and two dogs are running in circles around a small, largely paved-over back garden. One – the golden retriever – is our family pet, a staple now of my online security questions, so I will draw a veil over his name. The other is the poodle belonging to my paternal grandmother, whose back garden and patio this is. The golden retriever runs through these films much as he does through my mind, invariably chasing or gnawing at a small punctured ball. He belongs to the first eight years of my life, and must have died some time before the second half of my childhood began, in another part of the country, because he did not travel with us. My grandmother’s poodle was long-lived, eventually replaced by Dalmatians, a constant trip hazard to an elderly woman in a small house, resulting in broken bones late in her life.
Cut to my mother leaving the house looking very swinging sixties in an orange mini-skirted dress and calf-length boots, carrying the infant me. I’m put in the cot in the old-fashioned motor car, while the golden retriever provides continuity by running out of the previous scene and into this one, joining me on the backseat. My mother then reappears on the high street of a town I know to be Epsom. We see Finlays the tobacconists, the long since defunct Charter Inn, and Meakers, men’s outfitters, as well as chain stores still familiar in the UK, Burton and Boots.
My father shoots the traffic, and – not untypically for him – lets the camera wander after a bare-legged girl walking along on the other side of the street, before returning to my mother crossing the busy road. ‘A man who never sees a pretty girl that he doesn’t love her a little’, as the Sea And Cake song has it. People wait in a long, orderly crocodile for a bus in front of the long-lost pub. It’s late summer or early autumn, 1968. You can almost hear the Kinks’ ‘Days’ or Dusty Springfield’s ‘I close my eyes and count to ten’ drifting from the window of one of the passing cars, or from the open door of a shop. And again comes the wondering, where are all those patiently waiting people now? What were their lives like? If not in the ground or tossed as ashes into the air, do they ever remember those endless minutes queuing for a bus on Epsom High Street?
Cut to later that same sunny day, and a brief shot of the chef from the restaurant next to the golf driving range run by my father, followed by footage of two little twin girls eating chocolate, one of them clinging to her father’s leg, perhaps a little awed by the strangeness of the camera.
And now comes my first act of self-censorship, as the rest of the reel features me baby-naked in my cot, looking up into my birdie mobile (thus explaining my later ornithological leanings). While I haven’t got a problem with you seeing me in what in those days they might have euphemistically called the altogether, I suspect YouTube would have. And I suppose I don’t really want images of what would subsequently become my manhood floating all over the internet, so… cut!