Hey, you have got to begin somewhere and what better place to start than deep in the bowels of Hammersmith Hospital, 1955. An 8 lb 5 oz baby boy, second son to Mr and Mrs Ashcroft. Mother and son both doing well.
There you have it because whilst that might seem like the start, it was somebody else's dream, not mine. Dreams for me then were either non existent or not memorable enough to recall. Or maybe the miseries of life had not yet drawn the curtain to enter the stage and create the fears and shortcomings that afflict and upend our lives. Lucky me.
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| Mum and Dad, myself and older brother Kevin. |
It is said the first recollection one has of life, the earlier it is says something of your intelligence. As I have sat and listened at those who have claimed to have seen the light at the end of the tunnel as their first memory or recall bashing their gums on the edge of the coffee table on their first riotous steps, this has left me feeling somewhat deficient.
My genuine,first memory in life, set in concrete, take my first born if I am wrong moment,, was my fourth birthday. I can recall sights and I can recall smell, one of the greatest determinants of authenticity that exists. I can even remember texture, luckily a memory that has not tracked and followed me into perversion. It was a wholesome experience.
My father must have been there on the day we went to the park en route I believe to Buckingham Palace to watch the hand of the Queen sashay past, carving lines through the air mimicking a dorsal fin. However he was behind the lens of his camera and apart from an image that exists somewhere, the memory was purely of my Mother and the football that had been my birthday present.
My Mother wore a silky swishy airy dress emblazoned with flowers ( daisies) that was always one of my favourites in later years. Her smell I cannot recall. I remember only the the smoothness and lightness of the fabric and the light as it danced on the breeze.
The smell I do recall was of plastic, the new soccer ball. It is a smell I have caught on the wind a few times in my life but is no longer available. It was probably one of those withdrawn from the market owing to its ingredients being discovered as carcinogenic. Anyway, a leather pill would have been too hard for me I am sure. The leather balls that were used in those days were hard and heavy, especially when wet. And let's face it, my interest in soccer in my early years was prominent but my abilities did not match my interest. But I am jumping ahead.
The timing of the first steps in life, the day you took pedestrian flight, are another indicator of future prominence in the world of the intelligentsia. Sadly for my future self esteem I preferred the comfort of my pram quite content I am told, to watch the world go by. I did this until I was eighteen months old indicating the brain capacity of a small invertebrate and the gumption and drive of a fungus. No doubt my first steps finally were watched with relief and apprehension, like Victor Frankenstein watching his emergent creature taking life. Emotions of both marvel and dread.
I had a seemingly happy early life. The photos tell the story. I was there in body but not in spirit. It is funny how the formative years only form. They create personal narrative later in life when one can reflect, knowing what has transpired after the event and adding the seasonings of what others who may have been around at the time may have subsequently said. Unfortunately the stories of uncles, aunties, cousins and grandparents or even good friends of the family were never told to enlarge the images of my early childhood. But there I go again, jumping ahead.
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| Being a dickhead and digging up the garden. |
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| Being frightfully British with Dad and Kevin. Probably trying to entice some swans back to the house for frightening scientific experiments. |
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| Being throttled by my older brother Kevin whilst Mum holds my arms to render me defenceless. |
