From the albums

Recent delving into an ancient cache of Kodak slides (if you're under 40, ask an old) has produced reminders of one's distant self.

From left to right, the images originate from 1965, 1967 and 1970.

Help! Looking about twelve, I'm in fact fifteen. If only the 'preppy geek' look had been on trend that summer. It wasn't. Hence the sock-and-sandal look, teamed with tweed jacket (pen in top pocket, naturellement, simply produces an impression of, er, a preppy geek. The air of juvenile melancholy may be connected to my knowledge of the dismal set of 'O' Level results heading my way in about two weeks' time.
Sergeant Pepper The tweedy caterpillar has pupated into the fashionista butterfly posing centre right. Note Cuban-heeled boots and pale yellow (Dylon) jeans, inexpertly 'narrowed' on the family Singer. The brown M&S sweater doesn't contribute much to the ensemble, ditto choice of school scarf on bright spring day. On left is MB, schoolfriend, fashion guru and role model. I'm gazing with undisguised envy at the 'modded-up' scooter and the uber-cool retro-chic military jacket. Standing centre is my older brother, the only one not trying too hard with his 'look' - and, consequently, 45 years on, the one who doesn't look ridiculous.
Let it Be At the end of my second year at the University of Essex, I'm attempting (without noticeable success) to base my look on that of John Lennon. A close-up would reveal the circular specs. Major loss of fashion points for the M&S purple pullover, being worn that year by 75% of the male population. The mane of hair was, I recall, 'high-maintenance' in the extreme: a distraction from which one has been free for many years. The air of angst-ridden melancholy may be connected to my knowledge of the dismal set of Part 1 results heading my way in about two weeks' time.

Small change

How exciting to glance at one's loose change today and discover that this long-ago coin had found its way to my pocket - more than fifty years after it ceased to be legal tender.

I can remember the farthing clearly from my childhood, mainly for its small size and the charming image of the wren, Britain's second-smallest native bird (I believe).

Not for its purchasing power. By 1956, there wasn't much you could buy for a farthing. But save up 960 of them and you would have £1.00, with which you could buy plenty.

The trouble with homonyms

So all-consuming was the routine of boarding school that I rarely gave a thought to what life was like for my schoolfellows when we returned to our various home for the holidays.

A boy named Piers was the exception, simply because his descriptions of his life at home included an element that was, to me, utterly entrancing.

He told me that he spent all of his spare time 'at the wreck'.

The wreck? How totally fantastic. I pictured him and his chums playing pirates more or less for real: shinning up the fraying rigging, crawling over the quarterdeck and descending into the murky depths of the hold in search of doubloons, pieces of eight and all forms of piratical paraphernalia.

How I envied Piers.

Years later, while visiting friends, I asked where their children were.

'Oh they're playing down at the wreck - let's walk down there an collect them.'

My heart skipped a beat and I accompanied them with a certain amount of eager anticipation, combined with a hint of concern at the parents' matter-of-fact attitude to the extraordinary privilege bestowed on their children.

We reached our destination soon enough.

No galleon, no rotting timbers, no flutterimg skull-and-cross-bones. Instead, a grassy field, some goal posts, a metal climbing frame, some swings.

In fact, a perfectly serviceable municipal recreation ground. The Rec.

The scales fell: possibly the most poignant disillusionment of my life thus far.

The picture is the work of the talented artist L M Lowry.

Anniversary

My parents were married on Monday 19 August 1946, my mother's thirty-eighth birthday.

And here they are stepping out into the sunshine from the Church of the Most Precious Blood, Sidmouth, Devon.

The bride looks smart in her suit (she would have said 'costume', with the stress on the second syllable) and rather daring hat.

Rationing, my mother's status as a widow and her no-nonsense views on unnecessary expense provide clues, if any are needed, to the absence of a conventional wedding dress.

(The photographer subsequently adapted the print, thoughtfully blanking out the smiling lady who unintentionally causes my mother to look as if she has two heads.)

Marrying at an age when many couples are moving towards grandparenthood, the newlyweds are smilingly unaware of the speed with which they are about to be engulfed by family life.

By the time their fourth wedding anniversary arrived, they were parents to three boys.

My father (born 1900) lived another thirteen years. This November brings the fiftieth anniversary of his death.

Today brings the sixty-third anniversary of their marriage - and my late mother's 101st birthday.

K, Mr K and Ak

Almost thirty years separate these pictures of my friend KB.

The first was snapped in the spring of 1980, when K and his father invited me to join them on the family's boat to celebrate K's ninth birthday.

The location is the Gastineau Channel, near the city of Juneau in south-east Alaska.

I was nearing the end of my year as a US/UK exchange teacher, working with a third grade class at a local elementary school, where K was one of my students.

K was one of those children who come along every so often in a teacher's career: bright, inquisitive, eager, puzzling, funny, thoughtful - and voracious.

With K, it wasn't a case of him keeping up with what I was attempting to teach. The big worry was that I wouldn't keep up with him, so rapidly did he Hoover up the work.

Fortunately, it was here that my exchange teacher's 'unique selling point' came into play.

I'd brought with me a stack of materials about varied aspects of British life and culture: Guy Fawkes, red letter boxes, postage stamps and, my trump card, the Royals.

This was in those deferential pre-Diana days, when the Top Family was riding high after the success of the Silver Jubilee of 1977 - and was more or less divorce-free.

Consequently the simple family-tree diagram I'd prepared made it easy to see who was related to whom over several generations of assorted Windsors.

K was particularly intrigued and, under his own steam, began researching his family and forebears.

The busy school year rattled on to its conclusion. I left Juneau, travelled the Alaska Highway and celebrated my thirtieth birthday at the Grand Canyon - and returned reluctantly to the slightly less than Alaska-rugged milieu of my home and school in southern England.

In subseqent years I kept up Christmas-card contacts with K's family until, inevitably, changes of address (and my carelessness) ended such exchanges.

Until about ten years ago, when thanks to the www revolution, we re-established contact.

K, a man of deep and questing faith, now lives in Utah where he serves voluntarily on the staff of the local Roman Catholic Cathedral. And he pursues an international career as a genealogical researcher and lecturer.

The up-to-date picture comes from K's recent visit to the glaciers of Argentina.

I'm proud to count K among my friends.

Chuff or chop?

A recent visit to the National Gallery prompted a recollection of the basics of art appreciation.

Years ago I was in the NG shop, browisng the postcards - as one does. (You see all the pictures in the collection without the bother of traipsing around the vast building.)

To my right is a mother with her young son - about five years old.

He's staring intently at a couple of cards and is clearly in an agony of indecision.

Meanwhile his mother is losing patience: 'Come on, make up your mind. You can have one card. Now decide - the steam train, or the beheading....'

I haven't noticed the tall man browsing quietly to my left. He, like me, appreciates the little boy's dilemma.

He's less restrained than me. I hear him murmur (deep New England tones): 'Tough choice, kid...."

The works of art under consideration are shown above.

Boys in blue

Fast forward seven years from the preceding post, and here I am again shamelessly parading in public, but watch out - this time I've got a gun.

In line with many boarding schools, ours had a Combined Cadet Force, compulsory, of course.

The boys who were seriously interested in pursuing a military career signed up to the infantry section, while the teckies headed for the Signals platoon.

All the toughs, oiks and alpha males (so it seemed to me at the time) ended up in the naval section.

Which left the RAF squadron to be made up of an assortment of pacifists, misfits, Airfix fans and random boys who had identified it as the least hideous option.

No prizes for guessing my choice.

Actually, though I would never have admitted it at the time, being in the RAF section was terrific fun. Outings to RAF stations (fab food in the mess), flights in training planes ('Take the controls, lad!') and field-day route marches ('We're lost.') more than compensated for the dreary routine of bulling of boots, polishing of brasses and square bashing.

The parade above was for Speech Day 1967, towards the end of my final term at the school.

Days before, the penny finally dropped that if one had to dress up and stomp around like this, then one might as well look as good as possible. At the very least, one owed it to one's fellow conscripts - and, let's face it, to one's audience.

And if that meant mirror-bright boots, knife-edge creases and pin-sharp responses to orders, then I was up for it.

I can't make any pretension to motivation based on military pride. To be frank, from my point of view this was the nearest I was ever going to get to being in a chorus line. And, if I could help it, I wasn't going to be the sad hoofer who was out of step with the rest of the line.

I'm in the centre column. Beret three sizes too big.

The boy yelling the orders (with admirable élan) is Witold Mintowt-Czyz, who is now a distinguished orthopaedic surgeon.

Sporting prowess

A rare image of moi in sportif mode, clearly setting the pace in the finals of the mixed-age standing-around-chatting event. Almost half a century later, this remains my best discipline.

The year must be 1960 and the place is Prior Park Prep School, Cricklade, Wiltshire.

The ladies nearest me are my cousin Ann and my great aunt Marie Louise. Hats were obviously the thing for Sports Day.

I have absolutely no recollection of the sporting events that preceded the tea interlude.

But the prizegiving that followed, I remember vividly.

A massive table was piled with a fabulous selection of merchandise: board games, books, jigsaw puzzles and, unutterably desirable, a paint-by-numbers kit.

It was Santa's sleigh without the inconvenience of wrapping paper. How generous of the Brothers to stump up for so much splendid loot.

Prizes for more or less everyone. And a rather lusciously shiny Victor Ludorum trophy for the day's sporting supremo.

Boys only marginally more robust than me went up for awards. For a few delirious moments I thought there might be a wee something for me.

Needless to say, I came away empty-handed.

Still, the sitting around helped me work out the obvious fact that it was our parents and not the brothers who had funded the goodies.

Reportedly...

Fifty years ago I was Keegan III and a beginner at St Peter's School, near Exmouth in Devon - and I was very, very happy.

This ancient end-of-term report gives a clue as to my contentment.

The teachers were kind and sympathetic to a degree that occasionally makes me wonder: Bless you - but what were you thinking?'

For instance: riding. Our teacher for this extra-curricular activity was the glorious Helen Rhys-Jones, the Head's 21-year-old daughter - Miss Helen to us.

Her comment on my equestrianism reads: 'obviously at ease with ponies. Good position and sympathetic hands.'

How kind - but clearly she was unaware that I spent the two hours before every lesson in the lavatory - that's how at ease I was!

For 'games', I read: 'A sincere little boy who has proved himself a real sport and done jolly well in cricket'.

Again, how generous to mask my total non-ability under the charitable euphmemism of sincerity.

Grumpy music teacher Mrs Powell's 'makes no effort' was a pretty accurate judgement, I am ashamed to say. But, golly gosh, she wasn't the most inspiring of teachers.

Wonderful Miss Rushton says 'good' for Scripture - and awards me 37%. What might the comments have been for pupils who achieved above 70%?

Divine? Numinous? Transcendent?

Happy days.

What was one doing when...?

I've been invited to recall what I was doing when I heard of the following events.

Princess Diana's death - 31 August 1997
I was camping in a field near Stratford-upon-Avon. Prior to packing up the tent, I switched on my car radio.

Instantly aware that something wasn't right - why was James Naughtie presenting the news on a Sunday?

Tone of voice suggested a death. For a few seconds, I don't know why, I thought that Mother Theresa had gone aloft. And then Naughtie confirmed Diana's death.

Margaret Thatcher's resignation - 22 November 1990
A headteachers' meeting re the National Curriculum, near Andover, I think. Cold afternoon.

A tubby headteacher announced the news at end of the meeting. Majority of those attending applauded, which I could understand - but felt was rather mean-spirited.

Attack on the twin towers - 11 September 2001
I was at work. A colleague heard news from a friend via a phone call.

The BBC website was not working and I went to my car to hear the report confirmed. At this point neither tower had collapsed.

I called my brother in Boston, Mass, to check that he and his wife were all right.

I felt overwhelmed.

In the evening I went and sat quietly in Coventry Cathedral.

It's of no consequence, but kind New York friends once took me to brunch in the Windows on the World restaurant at the top of one of the towers. Windows on milk that day - we were in the clouds.

England's World Cup Semi Final v Germany in - 4 July 1990
Er, so sorry. God didn't give me the appropriate gene for this one.

Why couldn't the question have been about the 1966 World Cup Final?

President Kennedy's Assassination - 22 November 1963
I guess, for my generation, the head-and-shoulders-above-the-rest event.

I was thirteen and in the study hall at boarding school near Bath doing 'evening prep' - so the time was between six and eight o'clock on that Friday evening.

My friend Andrew McNinch was called out to take a phone call. Passing my desk on his return he whispered: 'Kennedy's been shot.'

I think that our housemaster confirmed the news at the end of prep.

The next day my brothers and I went home, for a planned two-day visit.

News bulletin followed news bulletin. The images: the motorcade sweeping through Dallas in clear sunshine; the jolt following the shot; Mrs Kennedy turning and reaching out towards the Secret Service agent and pulling him into the car.

And later, the swearing-in of Lyndon Baines Johnson aboard Air Force One. Mrs Kennedy beside him, still wearing the same blood-spattered outfit.

On the Saturday evening we watched the first episode of a brand-new TV series called 'Dr Who'.

Sunday evening brought the news of the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby.

Prayers in our church, of course for the first Roman Catholic president.

Of no consequence, but C S Lewis and Aldous Huxley died on the same day as JFK.

Running away

Reading is easy when it’s just me and the book. I look at Janet. I look at John. I look at them on the beach, or by the river, or playing with their dog. I look at a picture and then I look at the big words in the white space underneath. And then, while I’m quiet and thinking, the words come floating up off the page and into my head and they tell me the story. And then I turn the page and more words come floating up. It’s quiet and happy for me and Janet and John.

It’s harder when I have to read to Sister André at her big desk. The book is between us. I stand so close that I’m pressed against the big black folds of her habit. I can see the soft, downy hairs on her plump hands as she turns the pages. The words aren’t always light and floaty when I’m with Sister. But she is kind and she smiles. She helps me when the words get stuck to the page. If she is pleased I get a sweet from the small green tin she keeps deep in her pocket. Her rosary beads rattle as she reaches for it.

But today Sister wants me to read to the class. I am going to have to stand up with my book. And while Janet and John play and laugh and splash, the big words in their white spaces will curl and twist into hard spiky shapes. I’ll stare and stare but instead of flying gently up towards me, the words will hook themselves into the paper. And there they will stay. And while I’m staring my tongue will go tight and dry and there will be heavy weights hanging from the corners of my mouth, pulling them down and down as my eyes fill with hot, splashy tears

And that’s why I hid among the trees at the edge of the playground. The big hand-bell clanged and the other children lined up. Nobody missed me. And when it was quiet again, I walked through the empty playground, past the little house where the lavatories are and down the tree-lined path to the street. And I walked home. Along the top lane, past the allotments and down the hill by the railway line. I felt free and happy and safe as I passed the park gates and saw the swings hanging still in the morning sunshine. Then I was on the long uphill street that led to the edge of the town and the winding lane where my house and garden was – the last bit of the town and the first bit of the country. Nearly home.

And then a blue car that I recognised was coming down the hill towards me. It was our car and my mother was driving it and she had seen me. The car stopped. I climbed in and we drove off. But we didn’t go to the shops and we didn’t turn around and go home. Instead, we sped past the park, up the hill by the railway line, past the allotments and straight back to school. Within minutes we were outside the classroom door and my mother was talking quietly to Sister André.

‘Of course, I told Miss Briggs immediately,’ Sister said.

Miss Briggs? Miss Briggs was the headmistress. She taught the big children. She didn’t look a bit like plump, comfortable Sister André. She was tall and thin and wore a brown scratchy tweed suit. She had round, wire-rimmed glasses. She carried a stick. When Sister André took you anywhere, she held your hand. If Miss Briggs needed to, she held you by the wrist.

And while my mother and Sister André murmured, Miss Briggs appeared at the far end of the corridor: almost as thin as the stick in her hand. Her heels click-clicked on the polished floor. Miss Briggs gripped my wrist and led me down the long, long corridor.

I can’t remember much of what happened next. I think she asked a question that began with ‘Why?’ and I think she asked me to promise that I’d never run away again. I promised. She smiled. And I noticed that Miss Briggs was much younger than my mother.

And then I was back in the classroom. Janet and John were still playing on the long tree branch by the stream. The dog was still splashing in the shallow water. The words floated up towards me as I sat quietly reading to myself, sitting at my desk at the back of the class.