July 20th, 1969 was a big day for me. No, not because of the moon landing (at least not to begin with). The reason for my excitement was that it was the first day of our family vacation and instead of spending it with my aunt and her family in Rhyl, we were staying at the Butlin’s holiday camp in Minehead. Now, once I got past the age of twelve or so, it became a sniggering matter with friends if I admitted staying at one of Sir Billy’s establishments (a condition which really lasted for approximately 25 years until I came out of the holiday camp closet about a year ago). What you have to remember though is that to an eight-year-old boy, any Butlin’s holiday camp was just about the most place to visit ever. 

Butlin’s basic business model was loosely based on that employed by the Germans when they built prisoner of war camps during World War II. They tried to suggest that the barbed wire was to keep unwanted visitors out, but they didn’t fool me, I knew that it was to keep us safely inside where we could have “fun, fun, fun!” Just as the Allies had formed escape committees to keep themselves occupied 25 years earlier, this generation of inmates passed their time with ‘Knobbly Knees’, ‘Glamorous Granny’ and ‘Junior Tarzan’ competitions. Don’t even ask! All incriminating photographs are safely under lock and key, and I intend to keep it that way.

Anyway, before this tangent threatens to derail us completely, let me get back to Neil Armstrong. 
I’d been fast asleep in my standard prison issue cot (well, that’s what it looked and felt like) when my father woke me up and informed me that we were going to the TV lounge to watch a man walk on the moon. In my semi-comatose state, I wasn’t overly impressed with this news, so he tried to tempt me further by telling me that we’d be able to see it all in color. This perked my interest a little, as I’m sure that this my first the first ever opportunity to see a color TV. Unfortunately, seeing a color picture on a color TV had to wait another year, or so, because by the time we got there Neil was doing his stuff in grainy, blurry, black and white. 

Of course, that was irrelevant to me, as my father lifted me up over the heads of the adults, so that I could see the screen. Now, I had a new hero, and by the time we left the lounge a few minutes later, I was already planning out my distinguished career as an intergalactic space pilot. That dream continued on and off for quite a while, in part fed by my conspicuous consumption of any science fiction book that I could lay my hands on (starting with Heinlein’s  ‘Starman Jones’ which was a long-time favorite).

Let me make the switch from spaceman to bassman, by way of Starman Jones to Mick Jones of ‘The Clash’. I seem to remember that I had a couple of other career aspirations along the way, but they all seemed a little short lived, e.g. being a food technologist lasted all of two weeks or so, until I deduced that this was not about being a scientist who happens to like eating. Instead, I allowed myself to drift along with the cozily generic aspiration of scientist.

It wasn’t until punk (or rather the slightly toned version of it that filtered out of London and headed up the M1) came along in 1976, that I next focused on what I might want to be when I grew up (of course, for those of you who know the 38-year-old me, you can attest to the fact that the ‘growing up’ part is no longer an aspiration of mine). Yes, just as puberty kicked in big-time, so did my desire to become a rock star!

Now I have to say that the more energetic forms of rock stardom never really appealed to me all that much. Whether it was the wildly pogoing front man, the Townsend-like thrashing lead guitarist or the Moon-like bashing drummer, I instinctively felt that these roles were just uncool, primarily in that you ended up looking distinctively uncool yourself (all hot and sweaty – yuk!). No, what clicked for me was the laid-back dum-dum-dum of the bass player, the guitar hung suitably low on his hip, almost sneering at the audience as the amplified notes seemed to punch a hole in the audiences kidneys.   

Sadly, this was not meant to be, I guess. It’s so unfair when a complete lack of musical talent gets in the way of one’s dreams like that. Still, when I turned up college on my first day, with my peroxide blonde hair and almost legendary collection of eye make-up, I was pleased to pick up the nickname “Spike” and the attentions of a very beautiful girl named Jackie, who told me I reminded her of Sting. My love affair with music continues to this day (sadly, it never got off the ground with Jackie – our one attempt at an illicit afternoon together on a picket line outside the Houses of Parliament, was spoiled somewhat by her boyfriend’s decision to tag along… how very inconsiderate of him) and inside this outer garb of a daytime corporate computer dweeb, beats the heart and soul of a pan-galactic rockstar!

“Giant steps are what you take”
“Walking on the moon”
“I only hope my legs don’t break”
“Walking on the moon”

Deep, huh!

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I was convinced that I’d got away with it, but that didn’t last long. Within two minutes, he burst back into the room, pointed his finger at me, and said “come with me”. I collected my belongings, and sheepishly followed him to his office. He didn’t bother trying to get me to confess to my actions. Instead, he went straight into describing what my punishment was going to be. I was to lose all computer privileges for the rest of the year, which meant that I’d be unable to complete required assignments, which would mean that I would fail the course. He added that while he couldn’t just throw me off, he could remove me in other ways.

As the stupidity of my actions and their unintended consequences hit me hard, I apologized and asked him to reconsider. He softened at that, and pondered for a while, which seemed like an eternity to me. At last, he spoke again, in a kinder, softer voice. “I suppose that I should be grateful that you can point out the system weaknesses”, he said, asking me to explain how I ‘d done it. Satisfied with my answer, he told me that I was free to go, but that if he caught me hacking into the system again, there would be no second chances. I nodded, and thanked him.

As I was about to walk out the door, he asked me one last question. Did I want to know how he’d known it was me?  Taking my silence as ‘Yes’, he pointed to my bag, saying “that thing!” and then he smiled. I looked down at my bag, realizing that not only had I carefully recreated The Jam’s logo on the cover of it, but that it was also festooned with some of their badges (pins).

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Looking for Tuxedo

“I’d been looking for a sign, to let me know that he was okay. That’s when I saw the poster, pasted to a streetlamp. It said ‘he’s in hiding’, and I knew that God was telling me he’s okay”, he said.

This was the third time that I’d met the Catman, in as many days.  The first time, I was walking through Williams Park in Downtown St. Petersburg, when I saw a slight man, in his early 30’s, bending down over one of those baby strollers that look like a pet stroller, or a pet stroller that looks like a baby stroller. The stroller was facing away from me, so I couldn’t tell whether it was occupied or not, or whether the occupant was human or feline.

As I got closer, he unzipped the mesh cover, and a cat peered his head out. I paused, because I didn’t want Wolfie to frighten the cat, but the Catman (as he likes to be known) signaled that it was okay for me to proceed. When I drew level to him, I saw that there were two cats in the stroller, and both seemed unfazed with being in close proximity to a dog. For his part, Wolfie seemed pretty unfazed, too.

Because of its warm climate, St. Petersburg has a lot of homeless people, sleeping out in its parks. When I’m out walking Wolfie, I try and make a point of smiling and saying hello. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to be more understanding of the hows and whys behind people living this way. A smile and a kind word costs nothing, and it’s clear that for many of our homeless population, those are two things that they see little of.

I stopped to chat with the Catman for a while, complimenting him on his cats, and that’s when he told me that he had a third cat, but that he was missing. “He’s black, with a white chest and face, and that’s why I call him Tuxedo. He’s been missing for a couple of weeks now, but I know that I’m going to find him. This one (as he pointed to one of the cats, snuggled up in the stroller) was missing for two weeks, but I found him in the parking garage under the Signature building. Someone told me that they’d seen a cat like him, so I went there, and there he was”.

I told him that I would keep an eye out for Tuxedo, and he said that if I found him, I should take him to the local convenience store, and that the owner would keep him, until he was able to pick him up. I sensed that a lot of people care about the Catman, and could see what a gentle soul he is.

A couple of days later, I was up early, to give Wolfie a walk, and to watch the sun rise over the Pier. Although it was still pretty dark, I recognized the shape of the stroller, and that’s when I crossed the street to get an update on Tuxedo. The Catman told me about the sign from God, and then told me that he’d spoken to someone earlier, who had said the same thing. He said that he was reassured that Tuxedo was indeed in hiding, and that they would soon be reunited. I got the sense that maybe the person that he’d spoken with had only said that Tuxedo was in hiding, after the Catman had told him about the sign from God, but I chose to say nothing.

Again, I promised to keep an eye out for Tuxedo, and I started to say goodbye. The catman pointed to a plastic bag that was hanging over his shoulder. He told me that when he’d been talking to the other man, he’d asked about the bag, which was full of food, and had been left by a park bench. The man told him that it had been there for a couple of days, and that he should have it. The Catman prodded the bag, and told me that it was full of sports bars, and other “good protein”. I had the feeling that the man had probably bought those things for the Catman, and this was his way of helping make his life a little easier.

For the last couple of days, I’ve walked through Williams Park, hoping to meet the Catman again, and that he’s been reunited with Tuxedo. As I write this, I’m about to go to the local supermarket and buy some cans of cat food. If I see him, I will tell him that someone had left them near my apartment, and that he should have them.

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At some point, I mentioned that we’d traveled down from Delaware in my bright red campervan (Robert’s Red Ford – thank you, Lisa!). It turned out that Adam had used to live in Wilmington with his ex-wife, and when I told him that I lived in the city, he got more specific and said that he’d lived in Trolley Square. When I told him that I lived in the neighborhood between Trolley Square and the city (Happy Valley), he looked at me a little quizzically, and said that is where his ex-wife lives now. “You might know her”, he said. After the briefest of pauses, he added “she’s a bit of a cat lady”. I started to rack my brain, and asked “how many cats does she have?” His all too quick response was “none… now that they’ve all died”, and there was an element of bitterness that spoke to unresolved pain and bitterness. “She’s called Natalie”, he added, and again, I felt that there was more that he was only too eager to tell me.

I thought about my own relationship with my ex-wife, who I still think of as family, and the following chorus from Nick Lowe popped into my head… “what’s so funny ‘bout peace, love, and understanding?” I felt sorry for Adam, and seeing her response to his words (she seemed all too familiar with the fact that he still had issues), I felt sorry for Lindsay, too.

They were an interesting couple. Both were relatively recent transplants to St. Petersburg, and while she seemed to have fully embraced all the opportunities that a booming city can provide, he seemed hung up on what it didn’t provide, or what was inferior to the Northeast. A great example was when I asked them about other restaurants that I should try. When she started to tell me about a place near the USF campus, he cut her off, and went into a vent about how crazy it was that a simple egg breakfast sandwich could cost $14. Clearly, this was not their first rodeo, and with practiced timing, she immediately responded that the sandwich was $11, not $14, and then, in what was almost a conspiratorial aside to me, she whispered “it really is a good sandwich”.

In addition to missing diners, and finding egg sandwiches too pricey, Adam also shared his concerns about the price of coffee (“who wants to pay six bucks for a coffee?”), and how adding alcoholic beverages to an all-night diner’s menu, both brings down the quality, and brings in the wrong sort of clientele.  I told him that there seemed to be a Wilmington connection, as the woman who cut my hair and trimmed my beard had also lived in Troilley Square. When I told him the name of the salon, he said that was where he went too, and he seemed to be disgruntled, at what he thought to be their excessively high price. I was temped to point out that it did come with complimentary access to their well-stocked beer fridge, but I thought better of it.

They told me how they’d been happily renting for a number of years, but that their condo had been sold from underneath them. They’d now bought a place of their own, “at a price that they couldn’t afford not to, but that they couldn’t afford to”, pausing before adding “if you know what I mean?”. I nodded that I did, but I didn’t really.

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After taking in the sun’s earliest rays, I bought a cafe con leche to go, and started to think about breakfast. The good thing about getting up early, is you do have a lot more time to be thinking about breakfast. As I left the Pier, and started to walk past the Marina, I decided to park myself on a bench, and just drink it all in.

That’s when I first saw, or rather, first heard Trinnie. She was jogging towards me, and was passing under the overhanging branches of a large tree, when she failed to see that the edge of the paving stone that was sticking up. Seemingly in slow motion, I watched as she started to fall forwards, but then was surprised as she twisted her body to the right in mid-fall, executing a military-style forward roll that meant that she landed on the grass, rather than the concrete. I rushed towards her, asking her if she was okay, but by the time I got there, she was already back up in her feet, and was dusting herself down.

As you read my description of Trinnie narrowly avoiding a potentially nasty face-planting incident, think about the image that you were building in your head. Was she some svelte young thing, dashing to grab an oat milk latte, fresh from her sun salutations on the beach? Maybe a jacked triathlete, feeling guilty about not meeting her mileage goals during the week, and so she was trying to squeeze in a few extra miles, before anyone else in the house was awake?

Trinnie wasn’t at all like either of those stereotypes. She was more one of those ‘slow and steady’ runners that I used to see when I was taking part in a lot of half-marathons. The ones that pick a speed and stick at it, mile after mile, after mile. About my age, she had a grace and poise that belied her solid frame. She told me that she grew up in the Islands, and only after we’d said our goodbyes, did I realize that I hadn’t asked which one. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling that she’s either is, or was, a nurse. It was something about the way that she held herself, and her matter of fact was, as she for back up and just brushed herself off, after what had been a pretty dramatic spill.

She told me that she usually runs on the other side of the road, and that she knows where all the irregularities on the sidewalk are, and how to avoid them. Sensing that she was more than a little embarrassed, I went with humor, to ease the situation. I asked if she’d been a stuntwoman, earlier in her career, and commended her on her form. She laughed, in that beautiful way that people from the Caribbean Islands, , especially women, have of laughing. It was warm, and smooth, and rich, and it seems to make that early morning light just a little bit more golden.

She told me that she’d fallen while she was out running recently, and how by putting our her arms to protect her fall, she’d ended up with badly scraped wrists and palms. I told her that was fast thinking on her part, and she patted her cheek, saying “this face has already been through enough, I think”, and then she started to laugh again.

Having decided to be open to talking to strangers (I’m sorry, Mum… 50 years on, I’m knowingly ignoring your advice), I loved the connection and shared experience, especially as I wasn’t the one who had taken the tumble. Tinnie seemed to enjoy it, too, as she lingered a while, before slowly picking back up her jog.

As I watched her disappear into the distance, at that slow but steady pace of hers, I thought again about her military-style roll? I let myself create all sorts of back stories for her (medal-winning Olympic gymnast, Guinness World Record holder, Special Forces retiree / Green Beret holder). Or maybe, she just got lucky.

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The next part of our conversation went as so many of my conversations do, when she said “oh, you have an accent”. I responded in my usual way, with “I don’t have an accent… you’re the one with an accent!”. Usually this stops people in their tracks for a moment, and then elicits a smile. This time, I heard her response more clearly, in a very proper English accent. “Yes, I do. I’m English.”  Having determined that we both originated from the same piece of rock in the Atlantic Ocean, I asked her whereabouts. “Sussex”, she said. “I’m from Chesterfield”, I replied.

We exchanged names, with Pat introducing herself as “I’m Pat… it’s a very ordinary name”. She went on to tell me how she came to be in the US. When she was a young woman, her mother had encouraged her to broaden her horizons, by visiting her relatives in the US. “I came over by boat. It was far too expensive to fly, in those days”, she said. On that first morning, as a stranger in a strange land, albeit snuggled in the bosom of her family, she’d gone off to exchange some money. As she was in line, she met a young man, who caught her eye, and they started talking. 

“Was it love at first sight?”, I asked. “No”, she said, adding with a twinkle in her eye, “but it didn’t take long, and then we were together, until the day that he died”. Pausing for a moment, I then asked how long that had been. She seemed to do the math in her head, and then answered “we were together for 65 years, until her died 3 years ago”.  “I am so sorry to hear that. It sounds like you had a wonderful life together”. “We did”, she said, and in that moment, I saw the beauty and seeming inevitability of their chance meeting. I looked again, as she shaded her eyes from the warm Floridian sun, and now I saw her genteel frailty.

“Do you walk here, every day?”, I asked. “I walk every day, but not always here”, she said. I told her that I would look out for her, and that I was looking forward to our next conversation. As I write this, I’m looking for Wolfie’s leash, so that we can go in search of our new, and not so ordinary friend.  

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While I was there, I spent a lot of time in and around my hometown, as I started to explore buying a small property. As I get older, I am increasingly drawn to the area, particularly the Peak District, which is the UK’s first National Park. I grew up with it on my doorstop, and spent a lot of time exploring it as a child (with my parents, most of the day trips from school, and then later, with friends).

As I was driving through all of the small villages, I found myself remembering the first summer that I’d really explored them under my own steam, with a friend from school. We were 10 years old, and my brother John had finally convinced Mum that it was time for me to be allowed to venture beyond the end of the street. Her only condition was that I should not go off exploring on my own. Remembering that wonderful summer, I thought about Sue, and wondered about getting in touch. We were friends on Facebook, and I should have just sent her a quick note, there and then. I didn’t, unfortunately. Instead, I stopped and took a photograph (the one above), and continued on my way.

Yesterday, I would up to a message from another old friend, letting me know Sue had died, while I was in the UK, after a long battle with cancer. When I woke up this morning, much of this poem was already in my head. I just needed to write it down, remembering and honoring a friend, and the precious summer that we’d shared, so long ago.

Precious Summer

Was it really half a century ago?
My world, suddenly bigger
With you, in the center
What was cause and what was effect?

Fifty years
How quickly they’ve passed
The summer that we shared
Was infinitely longer

We’d started school
On the very same day
I remember your energy and warmth
I remember your kindness

You were my first love
My brother teased me about you
I was fierce in my denial
But I secretly liked that he knew

Hanging out together was your idea
I’d got a new bike for my birthday
“We should go for a bike ride”, you said
“Yes”, I replied, while inside
My heart was ready to burst

Looking at a map
I retrace and relive that day
Pilsley, Hardstoft, Tibshelf, Newton
Blackwell, Westhouses, Stonebroom

We’d cycled for hours
Just one more village, and then another
I loved every single moment
Togetherness had never felt so complete

Afterwards, we cycled back to your house
You introduced me to your favorite snack
Cold baked beans, straight from the can
Even now, whenever I open a can
I think of you, sharing your secret

As I was getting ready to leave
“Shall we do it again, tomorrow?”, you said
“We could do”, I said
Although my legs were tired
I could have somersaulted for joy

We cycled every day, after that
Going further and further afield
I didn’t want the summer to be over
I didn’t want the magic to end

Two weeks ago, I was home
Derbyshire, always playing the long game
Had reeled me back in
“Did you miss me?”, my homeland seemed to say
Always”, my heart replied

Driving through all of those villages
I stopped by Ogston Reservoir, to take a photograph
I thought about you, and about that summer
I thought about getting in touch

Yesterday, I woke to the news
That you’re no longer with us
As I had been reliving that summer
You had been breathing your last

Fifty years have passed
And every year, I still remember your birthday
The world is smaller, for you not being in it
Thank you for that precious summer

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One of the challenges that emerged when it got time to choose our options (the subjects that we would study for two years, leading up to exams when we were 16), was that there were two distinct sets of qualifications; CSEs (Certificate of Secondary Education) and O-level (General Certificate of Education: Ordinary Level). Nowadays they have been replaced by a single academic qualification, known as GCSE (General Certificate of Secondary Education). While the previous CSEs and O-levels were supposed to cover the full spectrum of abilities (CSE grade 1 was recognized as being equivalent to a ‘C’ at O-level), in practice, the curricula could be very different.

Just to throw an extra level of complexity into things, for O-levels, the school could choose to adopt curricula from different Examining Boards, which could be very different, from a content perspective. Sometimes, they’d choose a particular Examining Board, because the perception was that it was easier for students to get good grades. At other times, teachers would select a curriculum that was more in line with what they’d studied in a different part of the country. While that might be good for them, it wasn’t always good for the students, particularly if those were going to go on to to do A-levels, which were designed to reinforce and build upon those earlier studies.

For me, I went on to study Maths, Physics and Chemistry at A-level, after going on to Tupton Hall for Sixth Form, and there was a disconnect between each and every one of those subjects, between the curricula I’d studied at O-level, to what I was now trying to study at A-level. While I expect that lots of other schools were experiencing the same sort of problems at that time (the introduction of the comprehensive system was a pretty big and messy deal back then), Deincourt seemed particularly unprepared to handle the sort of challenges that came up.

The origins of the story I’d like to share is a prime example of the short-termist and atomistic thinking (as opposed to holistic thinking) that would pass for strategic staffing at the school. If I think back to my third year at Deincourt (the year where you choose the subjects that you will study for your final two years), one of the highlights was that being in the top class, we had the Head of Science taking us for General Science. He was a particularly good teacher, and just brought the broad spectrum of science to life for his students. It turns out that he was also ambitious, and keen to move on from Deincourt. As we contemplated our options, he would be the one teaching Physics. Both of my older brothers had studied Physics at the University of London, and being keen to follow in their footsteps (just like footsteps in the snow, it is always to easier follow where someone else has lead), I was really excited to choose Physics as one of my subjects.

As Year 4 got underway, we learned that our Physics teacher was getting close to completing his degree through the Open University. Like many of the teachers there, he had a teaching certificate, but no degree. I remember us all being supportive when he told us that his finals were coming up. What we didn’t realize was that as soon as he graduated, he would get a new position at a local Technical College, and tender his resignation, planning to leave at the end of the Easter term.

Around that time, I was captain of the school chess club, and because we were doing well in the Sunday Times chess competition that year, our headmaster would often accompany us to away games. I played first board, and my game would often be over pretty quickly, and so he’d look to engage me in conversation. I hated him with a passion, but for some reason, he would share some of his decisions with me, even though I was someone who was directly impacted by them. On one particular occasion, he decided to share his rationale for not directly replacing our physics teacher. Apparently, he hadn’t liked any of the candidates with relevant experience in teaching physics, but had become enamored with a candidate who taught biology. His decision was to hire that person, and then have one of the games teachers backfill on teaching physics. Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly. He hired a biology teacher that the school didn’t need, and asked a games teacher with no knowledge of physics beyond O-level to teach… well, to teach o-level physics.

So, as the final term started, there was some trepidation on my part, as to how our Physics class would turn out. While the games teacher was a very popular guy, particularly for the kids who were into sports, it very quickly became clear that he knew nothing about physics. We found ourselves going back over topics that we’d already covered, such as optics and light. It turned out that the reason for that was that he was a keen amateur photographer, and so that was an area that he felt comfortable teaching.

As we learned about his love of photography and took an interest, he became keen to teach us more about that, and offered to teach a few of us what he knew. Between the physics and biology labs, we had a darkroom that we’d never really been aware of. It turned out that this had long been his domain, and he was now willing to share it with us. Maybe physics wouldn’t be so bad, after all?

For the next couple of weeks, he’d load up a couple of old SLR cameras with black & white film, and he’d encourage us to go out and practice our camera skills. He’d then schedule for us to meet him in the darkroom the following day, where he taught us all about developing film and printmaking. For the first couple of times, he stayed with us, but he felt confident that we knew what we were doing, he left us to it. We’d heard rumours that he was dating one of the other teachers, and so we all decided that he probably wanted to hang out with her in the staff room.

On the final day that we were allowed into the darkroom, everything seemed as normal. There were 4 or 5 of us crammed in there, and we were wanting to develop and print some shots that we’d taken earlier. One of our group was a little less interested in the process than the rest of us, so he was spending his time rifling through all of the drawers and shelves that lined the end wall of the darkroom. No-one was paying any particular attention when he started holding up some negative that he’d found to the light, until he said “there’s a nude woman on here”. That is when he got all of our attention. Suddenly, we all wanted to look at the negatives, and I seem to remember that we all grabbed a film strip from him, and held them up to the light. Yes, those were definitely pictures of a nude woman. For those of you who have only ever known digital cameras, a film negative wasn’t very big (standard 35mm film measures 24mm x 36mm, or about 1 inch x 1.5 inches), and it was a negative image (with the lightest areas of the photographed subject appearing the darkest and the darkest areas appearing lightest).

There was only one thing to do (or at least to 15 year-old boys, there was only one thing to do), and that was to create some prints. We all crowded around as we first exposed the image on to photographic paper, and set about developing it. I’d always loved how when you dipped the the photographic paper into the developer solution, you’d slowly see the image emerge. You’d ‘fix’ the print and wash it thoroughly, and only then, really inspect the image that you’d created. This time, the process became much more frenzied, particularly when we realized that the person that was being revealed to us was none other than the female teacher that we’d heard rumours about, in all her birthday glory.

There was a pause, where I think all of us were contemplating the reality of the situation, that we’d seen things that we shouldn’t have seen, and knew things that we had no business knowing. That was quickly broken when one of us said “I want a copy of that”, and then someone else added “let’s make enlargements”. In the next 20 minutes or so, we created an impromptu production line, and we printed approximately 25-30 8″x11″ prints from two of our favorite shots. What we quickly learned, and what ultimately become our downfall, was the bottleneck of the drying process. The photo dryer was a large metal plate that was heated from beneath. You would put the prints onto the plate, and then lower a fabric cover over the top. This would help speed up the drying process, and ensure that the prints dried flat. Unfortunately, it would only fit two enlargements at a time, and had a cycle time of a few minutes, resulting in us having a backlog of dripping prints, all waiting to be dried.

It was around that point that we heard a knock on the door, and a rustle of the doorknob, as the games teacher tried to enter into the darkroom. Thankfully, we’d remembered to lock the door. “Let me in, lads”, we heard him say. We all looked at each other, in a state of utter panic, until some bright spark shouted out “we can’t, sir… we’re just doing some developing”, while simultaneously hitting the light switch which turned on the both the darkroom’s red light, turned off the regular light, and lit a red bulb outside the darkroom.

Picture the scene. There are 4 or 5 panicking boys, who are convinced that they are about to be busted. There is an impatient games teacher, directly outside the door, who is saying “hurry up, lads… lunchtime is almost over”, and repeatedly trying the door. The room is bathed in red light, which makes it hard to see, and there is a lot (and I mean A LOT) of incriminating evidence, everywhere. We hurriedly start to cover our tracks, putting the negatives back where we found them, putting the dried prints into our bags, making sure that we took any scrapped prints with us. At the end, in a seeming act of desperation, we were even stuffing the wet prints under out sweaters. We even remembered to take the last print from the print dryer. Finally, and pretty shakily, we switched the regular light back on, opened the door and sheepishly headed off to our form rooms for registration.

Word tends to get out pretty quickly in schools, and so by the next day, there was a lot of buzz about what we’d found, and people were coming up to us in the playground, asking if it was true. My response was to channel my inner Sergeant Schulz (from the TV show ‘Hogan’s Heroes’), and say “I know nothing”. The next day, we had a Physics lesson, which I was dreading, as I was convinced that the games teacher must know by now. It started off relatively normally, which lulled me into a sense of false security. At some point, he asked me to go and get something from the Biology classroom, which meant that I had to go past the darkroom. What I didn’t realize was that he followed me, and as I drew level with the darkroom, he grabbed me and bounced me off the opposite wall, He was holding on to my blazer by the lapels, and he brought his face very close to mine. I could see the rage in his face, and how he was fighting to control it. He leaned in closer, saying “you are banned from photography… you are banned from the darkroom… you are banned from being in the science block outside of your lessons… you’re lucky that I don’t kick you out of my class… now get out of my sight”, before pushing me in the direction of the Physics classroom.

It turned out that each and every one of us had a similar confrontation with the teacher. It also turned out htat how we’d been busted was that when we retrieved what we thought was the final print off the print dryer, there had actually been two on there, but the other one had stuck to the fabric cover, when it was lifted up. For my final year, physics lessons were something that I dreaded, because he would always be looking at me with that “I know what you did” look in his eyes.

Now, as an adult, I realize the sheer stupidity of what he’d done, and how he and his partner must have both feared that they might lose their jobs, if word got out of what we found. Over the years, I’ve occasionally caught up with my fellow photography enthusiasts / conspirators, and we’ve laughed as we recalled that day. Those two minutes of utter panic were really something like a scene from the Keystone Kops!

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Ever since I first received my results, I’ve been fascinated by the proliferation of additional DNA services that have popped up, claiming to provide additional insights, and have tried a few of them over the years. One that I tried (MyTrueAncestry) matches your sample with DNA extracted from ancient burial sites, and according to their website, the oldest match they’ve found for me is ‘Copper Age Radovesice Czech’, dating back to 2350 BC. A second (GenoPalate) offers to “decode your genes with the most comprehensive and secure genetic analysis on the market to discover which foods may help de-stress, focus, and energize you”. Among its many recommendations, it suggested that red bell peppers and carrots are the best vegetables for me, chia seeds and ground flaxseed are the best nuts and seeds, sweet potatoes and amaranth are the best grains, raspberries and avocados are the best fruits, and chicken liver is the best meat. Actually, their recommendations match what I like to eat pretty closely, so that’s one less thing to worry about (although I’m not seeing Tim Tam’s on the list, which Trader Joe’s have just started selling under their own brand… an oversight, surely).

The last service that I use (GenomeLink) “analyzes your genetic traits by connecting your raw DNA data with a growing body of genomics research”, and offers insights into traits covering Food & Nutrition, Personality, Intelligence, Physical & Sports. They employ a ‘freemium’ model, where you get details on 25 traits for free, plus one additional trait per week, or you can pay and get the immediate gratification of being able to access their 250+ traits. I’ve only signed up for their free service, but I do enjoy the weekly email I get from them, inviting me to access the latest bonus trait. Today’s was ‘Voice Breaking Age’, which advised me that there was a 50% probability that “You are likely to have your voice break at an older age than your peers”. Given that they went on to say that “in males, the normal timing of puberty ranges from 9 to 14 years of age”, and my voice broke when I was 14, I have to say that this trait is spot on, for me.

Anyway, in clicking through that link and reading about the underlying research on voice breaking, prompted me to dredge the following story from my memory banks.

Dreams Crushed – Apply Within

I don’t remember what triggered me to want to take singing lessons, or to even know that was something that you can do. I was wondering if it had something to do with Lena Zavaroni’s record-breaking winning streak on ‘Opportunity Knocks’, the 60’s and 70’s talent show hosted by Hughie Green (who later turned out to be Paula Yate’s birth father), but after asking the Google, that turned out to be in 1974, which was 6 years after I’d started taking singing lessons, at the age of 7.

I had two singing teachers, and sadly, I don’t remember either of their names. The first was an elderly woman, who lived in New Tupton. Wait… it is coming back to me… how I came to start having singing lessons. When I was 7, we went on vacation to Butlin’s in Bognor Regis, with another family. My mum was manageress of a fabric shop in Chesterfield, and she had a co-worker called Dorothy Mann. Dorothy was a semi-professional singer in her spare time, on the weekend ‘chicken in a basket’ circuit that took in a lot of the local pubs. She had talked my mum into going to Butlin’s, as she and her family (husband Arthur, and son Terry) were big fans. It turned out that what she loved about it was the talent competition, which she entered every year, and had once won. What had come flooding back to me as I write this, is that she was the one who encouraged me to enter the junior talent competition, and who spent the week encouraging me, and teaching me the words to ‘Do-Re-Mi’ from ‘The Sound of Music’ (which I still have yet to see).

Anyway, when it came time for the junior talent competition, I ended up coming in joint third, and so Dorothy quickly switched to encouraging my parents to sign me up for singing lessons. So… back to my first singing teacher, who lived in New Tupton. My lesson was every Monday night at 6:30, and to say that the lessons were dry and boring is an understatement. We’d start with the scales to loosen me up, but then I’d be singing the most boring of songs that she’d pick for me. I often wanted to stop going, but as singing opportunities started to open up, that wasn’t really an option, as I was always preparing for the next thing. That might have been the singing competitions that I took part in, getting involved in school choirs (which quickly led to being lead soprano), to starting to work through my singing grades.

When I was 11, my first singing teacher suddenly announced that she was retiring, but recommended a replacement singing teacher, who lived in Danesmoor, near the old swimming baths. This teacher was very different. She was in her 30’s, where my first teacher had been in her 70s. She was warm and effusive, where my first teacher had been cold and strict. She also picked songs that I liked singing!

For the next 3 years, I went for lessons like clockwork, every Monday night. Singing was a big part of my life, because in addition to being in the school choir, doing my grades and entering singing competitions, I sang in musical that our music teacher (Mr. Pickering) wrote, and was also very heavily involved with a youth group at the church I attended. On Sunday evenings, we would often go to other churches in the area, where we’d sing a few songs, and I would invariably do a solo. I think you can safely say that singing was a big part of my life, and perhaps understand why what happened next was so devastating.

Typically what would happen when I had my singing lesson was my dad would drive me there, and then sit outside in the car and wait for me, smoking up a storm. My final singing lesson started off exactly like all of the others. I arrived, let myself in, hung up my coat, waited in the hallway for the previous lesson to finish, waited for the previous student to pay, for them to be given their practice assignments, for them to say goodbye and leave… and it was my turn. As before, we’d start with chromatic scales. We’d usually go through them twice. She’d hit a starting note, and I’d sing an octave, starting from that note. She’d then move up a semitone, and I’d sing the octave, again following her cue.

On the day of my final lesson, I got about 5 notes in before my voice wavered and broke. She suggested that I try again, but now I was nervous, and I only got about 3 notes in, before I emitted a sound like a walrus in heat. It was unlike any sound that I’d ever made before, or since, to that matter. Her response was to close the lid on the piano, before getting up and fetching my coat. I was puzzled by what was going on, and asked if I could try again, suggesting that maybe I had a frog in my throat. It was then that this lovely, warm, effusive woman said, in a very matter of fact sort of way, that “no, it’s not a frog in your throat… your voice has broken, and there’s nothing that we can do about that”.

She went on to thank me for all of my hard work, and tell me how much she’d enjoyed teaching me. I was even more confused now, and realized that she gently guiding me toward the door. Not really being aware of what my voice breaking meant, I asked her how long would it be, before my voice was all better, and I could start singing lessons again. “It won’t get better”, she said, before adding that in her experience, boys who sing a lot before their voices break, tend to have poor singing voices as adults. With that, she opened the front door, gently pushed me out, and my singing career was over. I remember walking over to my dad’s car, and having to tap on his window to get his attention. He opened the door, and I climbed in. “What happened?”, he asked. “She said that my voice has broken, and that I can’t sing any more”, I replied. “Oh”, he said, and that was that. We drove home in silence.

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When I did feel ready, and went back to those same friends, asking them to work their matchmaking magic, I quickly learned that those particular boats had all sailed… maybe as a part of an armada, or something. The women that they’d wanted to set me up with were all now either: a) happily married; b) in a long-term relationship; c) met someone the previous week, but it already looked promising; or d) had come to terms with their true sexual orientation, and were happily out of the closet. And yes, that last one really did happen.

This was back in the good old days when companies still invested in training their employees, and my then employer was no exception. We had really great training facilities on site, and there was a wealth of courses which were readily available, if you expressed an interest. I was invited to attend a Leadership course, and, as was often the case, I was one of the youngest attendees. This time, there was someone else younger than me, and that was this very driven woman, who was in her mid to late 30s. I really liked the energy that she brought to the breakout sessions, and after the first day of the course had ended, I found myself lingering with her in the car park, revisiting some of the things that we had covered on the first day. There had been this ready attraction between us, and so with hindsight, I think that she was hoping that I would ask her out. If that was the case, I freely admit to being totally oblivious.

The following day, she was a little late to class, and the only seat left was next to me. In one of the exercises, we had to role play different scenarios, and it became really clear that we were enjoying each other’s company. The end of the day found us lingering in the car park again, where I found myself answering her question about my relationship status, and availability to meet up for a drink, later. The course had let us out early, with strict instructions not to go back to work, so she was going to run a couple of errands, but then suggested that maybe we could continue our conversation over drinks and appetizers. I said that I’d love to, but to be honest, I still wasn’t really sure whether it was a date or not. It had been more than 20 years since I’d last dated, and I’d been pretty clueless then, too.

A couple of hours later, we reconnected in a popular bar/restaurant, just over the border into Pennsylvania. As usual, the place was pretty crowded, and conversation was challenging. Things seemed to be going really well between us… definite chemistry… CHECK… mutual physical attraction… CHECK… easy conversation… CHECK. We decided to order some appetizers, and when the server brought the silverware, the knife slipped, and was on track to stab into the back of my hand, if I hadn’t jerked my hand away.

I felt the need to explain my over-reaction, and at that point, maybe the noise in the bar got overly loud for a moment. Whatever the reason, my companion missed the first part of the explanation (when I told her about almost removing the top section of my 3rd finger on my left hand… the key lesson being never to try separating two frozen beef burgers, with a freshly-sharpened butcher’s knife), and then missed most of the second part (where I told her about how someone who knew about my aichmophobia, or fear of sharp things, had come at me with a kitchen knife. No, instead she heard the first part of my final sentence, when due to the fact that I hadn’t had the benefit of Google to look up specific phobias, I’d described in laymen’s terms how I felt about knives, particularly if they were in the hands of someone who either didn’t respect them, or intentionally wanted to scare me.

I guess the lesson that we could both have learned from what happened next is that when in doubt, ask clarifying questions. Instead, her tone changed to one of concern, and she asked me whether it was something that I was getting help with. I told her that I wasn’t, and that I didn’t feel the need to. I sensed that I hadn’t fully answered her question, or not to her satisfaction, at least. I found myself explaining that I had accepted and understood my fears, and that my way of dealing with it was just to be careful, and not put myself into situations where that could be an issue. “Oh”, she said. “I see”, she said.

Our conversation switched topics again, and I noticed both a cooling and a certain physical distancing. Instead of leaning in and mirroring my body language, I was now picking up different vibes. It was almost as if she couldn’t wait to get away. While our polite small talk continued, I was running through the things that I’d said in my head. What was it that I’d said that might have offended her? It was then that the lightbulb came on over my head, and so I asked her if something had bothered her about my knife story. Maybe she’d had a bad experience, and it had been triggering for her? Her response was to stare at me blankly, as if I was mistakenly talking about a conversation that I’d had with someone else.

I decided to try and nudge her memory, saying “you know, when I told you about my irrational fear of knives?”  She blushed deeply, whilst simultaneously choking on some of her lite beer that seemed to go down the wrong way. When she’d composed herself, she said “Oh, you were talking about an irrational fear of knives?”  I thought that you said that you had an “erectional fear”. What I learned that night, was that there are those misunderstandings that you can recover from, and there those that you just don’t, and that we’d just encountered the latter.

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