Autobiographical

Harold Wilson resigned in early 1976, to be replaced by James Callaghan who would lead the Labour Party into the 1979 general election. Meanwhile the following year ushered in the Silver Jubilee, technological change, with the emergence of personal computing, in particular Apple (I work on iMacs to this day), as well as the launch of Star Wars: A New Hope, the spread of punk and the Sex Pistols, David Bowie’s continuing rise with Heroes, ABBA, Donna Summer, the Clash and Elvis Costello, the latter to represent the first concert I would attend at Hammersmith Odeon.

The year 1977 also marked a new start for me, as we moved after the spring term from Hampstead to an estate in Ealing not far from the next school, Saint Benedict’s.

However, I now realise that I cannot put my early childhood to bed just yet, as a previous dwelling in Windmill Hill, Hampstead, comes to mind. The rooms were small.  I shared a room with Adrian. It was situated not far from an Everyman Cinema which screened old classics, including a couple of Humphrey Bogart films I loved – The African Queen and Casablanca. 

A fair distance from The Hall (primary school), I would take a bus and be picked up on most occasions by my sister Helen. She looked forward in particular to Mondays as I had cookery class, making omelettes, flapjacks, rice crispy cakes and other tasty morsels, in the hope that I would share the ones I took home with her. Unfortunately, on most occasions I would say no, saving them for my mum, who would naturally give some to Helen behind my back and pictured here.

She has been a constant in my life, caring for me in particular when I was an infant and growing up and I am forever grateful, returning the favour over the past decade or so. She is a better sister than I could ever imagine. I suppose religion was going to appear at some point: she would also accompany me to the early 8:00 AM mass on Sunday at the local church where I was an altar server. I also played football with the other servers sometimes.

However, my parents were the real bulwark of the family. Not only that, in their spare time they worked as a team on each property, painting and wallpapering them, with my dad also doing the odd carpentry job at home, in order to be able to trade up to a bigger property in a cheaper location, such as 35 Rudall Crescent, a larger house near Hampstead Heath. Here my dad also created a basement flat with a separate entrance for my late brother John, already in his 20s who had been good at maths and had moved into stockbroking.

My dad was thrilled to sell the house to a well-known classical guitarist John W. who allegedly assured him that he planned to bring up his family there for a long time. Trusting him, my dad offered a significant discount that he could ill afford on the price. However, the musician would go on to sell the place four months later at a considerable profit. One of my dad’s favourite maxims “Life isn’t Fair” comes to mind.

However, there was nothing to be done. Now on with the move to Ealing, a new school and good friends there, as well as an unexpected enemy who blighted my future for years to come. But that is another story…