Waiting for Roy Harper in Brixton

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Waiting for Roy Harper in Brixton

Anyone who knows Roy will know that he runs on different time to the rest of us. I lived up in Hull and he lived in Brixton. We needed to get together to do some work on the book. As I had no car at the time and was no longer as partial to hitch-hiking as I once had been I thought that train was the best solution. As it was half-term I had some time. I arranged with Roy the times and set off. He assured me that he would pick me up from the station.

Now I hadn’t quite expected Roy to be standing there when I arrived; I knew him better than that.

Clutching my bag I made my way out of the station and sat myself down on a bench in a prominent place to wait.

This was Brixton a few months after the notorious riots. Watching the news all one saw was rampaging black youths, overturned cars, petrol bombs and houses on fire. Brixton looked like a war zone. Colleagues in Hull, which, at the time was not the world’s most cosmopolitan city, thought I was going into some cauldron of race rioting. I was doomed. They assumed that as soon as the denizens of Brixton set eyes on a white face they would tear me limb from limb.

The minutes dragged into an hour. A lady from one of the shops had noticed me sitting there waiting and brought me a cup of coffee. She asked if I wanted to use her phone (this was before the age of mobiles) to contact someone. I thanked her profusely.

The hour became two hours and I was joined by a very drunk old man who offered me drinks out of his bottle, wrapped in a brown paper bag, put his arm round me, and engaged me in conversation.

After two and a half hours a taxi driver offered me a free lift to wherever I was going. Perhaps they wanted rid of me?

Eventually Roy appeared in his huge car and drove me off to his house.

I could not help wondering if a black guy sitting outside Hull train station would have received such a friendly reception?

Anecdote – Sex in the classroom

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Anecdote – Sex in the classroom

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Sex in the classroom

It did not take me long to discover that there were major gaps in the boys understanding of sex. This was 1976 and well before the advent of the internet (which creates an entirely different set of ignorances). They were much less liberal times and the boys’ knowledge was sketchy.

I did not think anything of it. When we came to human reproduction I slotted in my own sections on sexually transmitted diseases and contraception and also did a couple of far-ranging discussions. They went down well and there was obviously a need.

I’d been doing this for a couple of years when me Head of department found out.

‘Does the Head know you’re doing sex education?’ He asked.

‘I doubt it,’ I shrugged.

‘I think you’d better tell him,’ he suggested.

I thought that was a bit strange. Sex ed was an established part of the curriculum in most schools. I couldn’t see the problem. But then I hadn’t reckoned with the school. It was very traditional and old fashioned. I enjoyed that. I liked getting my teeth into it and giving it a good shaking. I saw my job as stirring up the hierarchy.

With that in mind I went to see the Headmaster.

He was enshrined in his oak panelled office, sitting in his leather-bound chair behind his large dark oak desk. I was ushered in and sat before him on a hard wooden chair.

I explained why I had come.

My Head of department had given the impression that I might be walking into a minefield. But he was very pleasant. He didn’t say no. He merely suggested that introducing sex education was a big step. There could be repercussions. Before I did any more I needed to have it discussed at a staff meeting.

I found that amusing but it did not seem to be any big deal. I went along and saw the relevant Deputy Head and had it included on the next agenda. I prepared my presentation and was looking forward to the debate. I had no doubt that I would quickly get through this formality. When the agenda came out Sex Education was down at item number six.

The meeting took place and I sat there with my notes. We managed five items in the allotted time. I did not manage to address my issue. Not to worry. It would be on the next agenda. The next staff meeting agenda went up and I noted my sex education was down at number nine. The penny was beginning to drop. My suspicions were confirmed when the following agenda had no room for my topic at all. I was being stalled. The boss hoped it would all go away.

I produced a sheet explaining the need for sex education and circulated it around the staff. I then went and had personal ‘discussions’ with every member of staff. I managed, with my powers of persuasion, to elicit agreement in principle from every one of them, Deputy Heads included, apart from two abstentions from two religious Catholic staff.

Triumphantly I returned to the Headmaster’s office, clutching my referendum results and confident that I had circumvented the tactics and come up with a result. There was no need for a discussion at a staff meeting.

The Headmaster was unruffled. He congratulated me and suggested the next step would be to canvas the parents for their views. I could see that he expected a strong parental opposition that would scupper it. I was not so sure. I thought the parents were mot liberal and modern thinking than the Headmaster imagined. Sex education was not a major controversial issue.

I produced a single page letter to be distributed to parents. It was approved and sent out. There was not a single negative response.

At my third interview with the Headmaster he congratulated me again and suggested that the next step would be for me to take it to the Governors to gain their approval. I could see the tactics being deployed and wondered what other obstacles might be put in my way. He was stalling for all he was worth.

I put together my presentation and was given a slot at the next Governors’ meeting.. I gave them the works and, surprisingly, gained a unanimous agreement for me to go ahead.

At my fourth visit to the Headmaster he admitted defeat. He conceded that I had successfully jumped through the hoops and could go ahead and do it.

It was only at the end of our meeting that he dropped his bombshell. He was an old guy well into his sixties, and had come from very conservative times, an honourable man.

‘You know Chris,’ he said thoughtfully,’ I know times are different and we have to keep moving forward but I’m personally still not sure about this sex education. I do not believe you can go showing films of young girls masturbating to red-blodded English boys without it having some effect.’

I sat there stunned.

It was only then that I realised what sex education meant to him. It wasn’t contraception, disease and relationships; it was sex films.

Perhaps a little more conversation about content and presentation might have saved me two years of uphill battle?

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Anecdotes – paperback just £6.95  Kindle – just £1.99 or free on Kindle Unlimited

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More Anecdotes – paperback just £7.29  Kindle – just £2.12 or free on Kindle Unlimited

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My other books are also available. There is some unique to suit most tastes if you like something thought provoking and alternative.

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The Death Diaries – Chapter 1

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The Death Diaries – Chapter 1

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1.

I am sixty six and three quarters. I have lived two thirds of a century. I don’t want to die but realistically I know that the probability is that I will do sometime in the next twenty years, in all likelihood a lot sooner than that.

Presently, apart from the aches and pains and limitations of age, I am fit, healthy and still have my mind. There is nothing wrong with me. I am merely dying by degrees. We call it ageing.

Death is biologically programmed. It is not necessary. We are coded to die. It is in our genes. We have to get out of the way so that there is food and space for our offspring. We are past reproductive age and hence superfluous.

We do not like to think or talk about death. We ignore it and prefer to pretend it isn’t going to happen.

It is.

As Dylan said – ‘he not busy being born is busy dying’.

I am dying.

A few sunsets from sea!

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A few sunsets from sea!

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Anecdote – My Dad and a mug

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Anecdote – My Dad and a mug

My Dad and a mug
My old man worked up in Fleet Street. He ran a news reporters office. They all called him Ron. He demanded high standards and made sure he worked harder and longer than anyone else.
Every day he was up at half past six. He smoked a roll up and drink a cup of tea before sorting his breakfast. He’d catch the seven thirty to Waterloo and be in the office by nine. He finished at five thirty and was home at six thirty. Mum would have his tea on the table. He’d eat an then sit on the soafa reading all the newspapers, (he had every single national paper), checking out the stories, places and names, and watch a bit of telly. He’d either smoke his pipe or roll-ups. At ten he would make a milky drink and go to bed.
I used to think the Kinks – Well Respected Man – had some resonance with his life. It was regulated. There did not seem room for anything else. He worked Saturday and Sunday followed a pattern. He’d mow the grass, carve the joint and occasionally go down the pub for a pint on the green.
I think he found his work satisfying, maybe fulfilling, but to me it looked drab. I despised the predictability and the way it demanded all of him. My mum resented it too. She did not like the way he put his entire being into it. She said he never turned off. I wanted something more out of life. Work was not going to steal my spirit.
When I was seven or eight he took me up to work with him. We went up on the train. I enjoyed the bustle of it. It was exciting to go into his office. I remember him walking into the place with confidence and purpose. He was the boss. As he walked through the door the teaboy handed him a mug of tea – milk and two sugars – he did not even break stride. It was as if he had been waiting. He probably had. Dad was like clockwork. I was super impressed.
Dad took me to his office. We sat with mugs of tea while dad checked all the raw reports sitting in his in-tray. He corrected grammar and spelling and sent it off to the editorial office or filed it elsewhere.
I watched the office. I was intrigued. Dad had thirty people working for him on telephones plus a bunch of ancillary staff such as the teaboy and clerical staff. All of the telephone reported sat in little carels with headphones on and a Remington typewriter. Reporters at the scene would phone in their raw reports. The telephone reporter typed it up. They had to type at the speed the news reporter spoke – and sometimes they spoke fast. The task of a telephone reporter was to type fast enough to get it down and to ensure grammar, spelling and punctuation was correct. That was quite an ask.
I sat and watched, mesmerised, by it all. All around there were typewriters rattling away, mugs of tea being delivered and drunk, fags smoked and ashtrays filling to overflowing. There was a blue haze in the room. My dad sat in his office as report after report rolled in. He scrutinised, corrected and sent them on their way. Phones were continually ringing, people rushing about and a general buzz of excitement.
This was where the news happened. It was intense. You could taste the adrenaline.
Dad’s role was crucial. He hired and fired and ran the office. He sorted and made decisions about what to pass on and where it went. He corrected the script. There were deadlines and sometimes great spurts of activity so that he was inundated. Then it might ease off for a while.
Dad had a good team. He only employed the best. He told me his system. He always met with the person applying then he gave them a test that probed their weaknesses. It was a speed typing test with punctuation and spelling. He told me he had two tests – extremely hard and impossible. If he liked the applicant he gave them the extremely hard one. If they passed he hired them. If he did not like them he gave them the impossible one.
I enjoyed my day at his office. I was pampered by the clerical staff and the reporters. I could see that they liked and respected dad. I could also see that the adrenaline and frenetic nature of the job was addictive. There was a camaraderie and professionalism. It was hard, intense and required skills and concentration.
But what impressed me most was the way that mug of tea had been placed in his hand as he walked in. That spoke reams.

Anecdote – Steamed and trained

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Anecdote – Steamed and trained

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Steamed and trained

My home backed on to a railway embankment so I was used to trains. Old steam trains like the Mallard and Brighton Belle used to charge past my house all the time. I did not notice them.

Things were easier back then. There wasn’t the same frenzied pace, obsession with health and safety and personal indifference. Back then people were friendly. The older men would stop and chat, give you a sweet or show you how to throw a hoop and make it come back to you without being suspected of being paedophiles. People were friendly and kids had freedom. That worked both ways. When we were seven or eight Jeff and I used to climb over the back fence and play on the railway embankment. We didn’t go up to the rails and were perfectly safe. But a train driver must have noticed us there and actually stopped the train to shout at us to get off.

Our road was equidistant to two railway stations. Jeff and I would go along to the station at Hersham and chat to the engine drivers. They were very friendly. They let us go on the engine and do all sorts. They would even take us along on the footplate and drop us off at Walton station where we’d walk home. We were allowed to shovel coal into the furnace and pull various levers. When we went past our houses we were allowed to hoot the steam whistles. They made a hell of a din. So technical, at the age of eight I suppose I could say I had driven a steam engine. I am sure that Jeff and I were a great help.

My mum bought me a train spotting book. It was basically a list of engine numbers. All the trains had their own number. When you see it you underlined it. I played in the back garden and tried to note the numbers as the engines went past. But that was useless. I was so used to them that I didn’t notice them coming.

There were a keen group of train spotters at school. I joined in for a bit. I liked the bit where we went along to the footbridge across the line. We’d stand on there as the trains went by and become enveloped in the smoke and steam. That was great fun. I also enjoyed going through the tunnel at Hersham. We’d shout and get echoes and wait for a train to thunder through overhead and deafen us.

The culmination of my brief flirtation with train spotting was a trip up to London. A little group of us ten year olds went up to the big train sheds. I don’t know how we got into the place but we spent the day wandering around the sheds underlining numbers to our hearts content. We climbed up onto footplates and went from train to train. It was wonderful. There were lots of people around but nobody seemed to pay us any attention as we walked across the tracks and watched engines shunting around. There were hundreds of them. I had pages of underlined numbers.

I lost interest after that. Trains were OK but I preferred animals. Looking back it seems amazing that things were so free and easy. Nowadays our children are strangled with safety. They don’t live.

If you enjoy my poems or anecdotes why not purchase a paperback of anecdotes for £7.25 or a kindle version for free.

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Rhyme and Reason – just £3.98 for the paperback or free on Kindle

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Anecdote – How I passed my Religious Studies exam due to divine intervention.

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Anecdote – How I passed my Religious Studies exam due to divine intervention.

anecdotes BookCoverImage Poems & Peons BookCoverImage

How I passed my Religious Studies exam due to divine intervention.

Religion and I have never got along. I think I was born a heretic. Either that or I am a blasphemous pagan at heart.

Through school I suffered the excruciating assemblies with their hymns, prayers and bible readings. I abhorred them. I also despised the RE lessons with all their bible bashing and indoctrinating rhetoric. My brain was impervious to religion. It bounced off.

Then when I was fourteen I discovered I did not have to do it at all. I could get a dispensation on religious grounds. All I had to do was induce my parents to sign the relevant form or write a short note to the effect that they wanted me out of all religious practice. Problem solved.

Except it wasn’t. For some obscure reason, that I do not understand to this day, my parents, who brought me up with a liberal, unindoctrinated perspective, and respected my views, refused to write the note.

That made it even worse. So I dug my heels in. I went to see the RE teacher and explained to him that I was categorically not going to do the RE. He could do what he liked. I was not going to budge. After a lengthy argument we came to a compromise. I would attend the lessons and give out the bibles. Then I would sit quietly at the front and read. That suited me fine.

So while the rest of the class filled exercise book after exercise book of boring comparisons between the four gospels I read great Science Fiction by Arthur C Clarke, Robert Sheckly, Asimov, John Wyndham, Philip K Dick and Robert Heinlein. I reckoned the content of fiction in my books was superior to the fiction in theirs.

RE was a subject that was sat earlier than the other subjects. We took our O Level at Christmas. I was surprised to find that my name was included. I went to see the RE teacher to point out the error. I had not done any RE; I should not have my name down for the exam. He huffed and puffed and did not like to admit his mistake. He told me that it was easier for me to just go through with it rather than trying to scrub me from the exam at this stage. I shrugged. I wasn’t bothered.

The night before the exam I borrowed a bible. My mum found me looking through it.

‘What are you doing?’

I explained that I had my RE O Level the next day. I had been intrigued by a couple of things. I looked up to find out what the Transfiguration was all about and I checked out what Jesus said on the cross. – ‘My father why has thou forsaken me?’

I always thought that was a strange thing to say. It seemed to suggest to me that at the last minute he was having doubts and had realised that it was all bollocks.

After ten minutes I became bored, which amused my mum no end. She knew what felt about the bible.

The next day I took my exam. We had to answer four questions out of five. Question one was about the Transfiguration. Question two was about the words Jesus had said on the cross. Question three was about a psalm I knew well from assemblies. Question four was a parable that I was familiar with. It was easy.

The next term the results came out. Only a third of the class had passed. I was one of them.

I have a qualification in Religious Education. I bet my RE teacher was as pleased as Punch.

If you enjoy my poems or anecdotes why not purchase a paperback of anecdotes for £7.25 or a kindle version for free.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anecdotes-Weird-Science-Writing-Ramblings/dp/1519675631/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1457515636&sr=1-3&keywords=opher+goodwin

Or a book of poetry and comment:

Rhyme and Reason – just £3.98 for the paperback or free on Kindle

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rhymes-Reason-Opher-Goodwin/dp/1516991184/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1457515636&sr=1-4&keywords=opher+goodwin

My other books are here:

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Anecdote – Rebena’s little ploy – a true story about bullying and embezzlement

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Anecdote – Rebena’s little ploy – a true story about bullying and embezzlement

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Rebena’s little ploy

Rebena was not a nice lady. In fact I’m not sure that Rebena was a lady at all. She looked like an extra from Prisoner – Cell Block H and I’m sure she would never have made the Olympics, at least not in the female category. She probably had more testosterone that the rest of the boys in school.

Rebena must only have been fourteen but she looked like a grizzly bear with short brown hair. She ran a little gang of girls who, despite lacking the necessary musculature, all aspired to be like her. They had the swagger down and weren’t short of attitude.

For my first weeks in school it seemed like a game. Rebena’s ‘girls’ would chase us around all over the school. Every break-time was a game of chase. I enjoyed it.

Then it ceased to be a game. A bunch of them cornered me and frogmarched me off for a private conference with Rebena. There were a lot of arm twisting and tight grips with some pinching and punches. It was apparent that the young ladies had not found the enterprise as much fun as me. To them it was business. They did not like being given the run-around. It had certainly ceased to be quite so much fun for me.

They escorted me to Rebena’s ‘office’. She held court behind the bike sheds where it was nice and quiet.

Rebena had quite a persuasive way with her. She was very quiet and softly spoken, with a husky voice well beyond her years.

Rebena had a comb. It was quite an unnecessary implement for any practical use. Her hair was so short it hardly needed combing. It was one of those girls combs; an aluminium job with a handle. Rebena had modified it by sharpening that handle to a sharp point.

The Hench-ladies delivered me and two took the job of holding me still by forcing my arms behind my back and jamming me back against the wall. Rebena regarded me with a cool stare. She pushed my head up against the wall and put the point of her comb under my chine. I was soon standing on tip-toes as she raised the comb up to dig into my flesh.

When she had got me pinned, much to the amusement of the girls all gathered round, she began to make me that offer that was hard to refuse.

It seemed that Rebena had my best interests at heart. She knew that some of the older boys could turn nasty. She knew that some of my classmates could be trying. She had the answer to all my problems.

I tried to explain to Rebena that I really didn’t have any problems in school with anyone. That was hard to do with a sharp point jabbing into your throat. Rebena assured me that I did have problems. I was definitely in need of protection… I didn’t need telling twice. I could not only see the point but I could feel it too.

Rebena’s solution was quite simple. All I had to do was to make a reasonable contribution. Every morning I would pass half my dinner money to one of her girls. I could report anyone who was giving me a hard time and my problems would all melt away.

It certainly seemed a reasonable offer to me. I was getting fed up with arms being twisted and having pointed objects poked into my flesh. I readily agreed to this very sensible request.

I was expecting an instant release. That was not quite what happened. The arms were twisted a bit more and the comb raised a half inch.

Then Rebena explained very slowly just what would happen should I miss a payment. I was entering into a contract. If I failed to keep my side of the bargain there would be repercussions. There would be no nice, kindly interviews like this. As I was not finding this an either nice or kind interview I think I was beginning to catch on – if I did not give Rebena half my dinner money then she would beat the shit out of me.

There did not seem a lot of options. For the next couple of weeks I paid up and went hungry. I was one of many. Rebena was raking it in.

Fortunately this came to an end. I still do not know what happened but the last I saw of Rebena she was in the back of a police car being driven out of school. She never came back. I assumed that Rebena’s nefarious activities were not restricted to school playgrounds.

If you enjoy my poems or anecdotes why not purchase a paperback of anecdotes for £7.25 or a kindle version for free.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anecdotes-Weird-Science-Writing-Ramblings/dp/1519675631/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1457515636&sr=1-3&keywords=opher+goodwin

Or a book of poetry and comment:

Rhyme and Reason – just £3.98 for the paperback or free on Kindle

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rhymes-Reason-Opher-Goodwin/dp/1516991184/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1457515636&sr=1-4&keywords=opher+goodwin

My other books are here:

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Thank you and please leave a review.

Anecdote – The Lone Ranger – a tale in black and black.

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Anecdote – The Lone Ranger – a tale in black and black.

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The Lone Ranger.

I used to go to all those Saturday morning flicks where the audience of young kids would be baying at the screen as the good guys, all dressed in white all rode out to trounce the bad guys all dressed in black. If only real life was half as easy. Whenever there was a spot of bother you could always count on a masked rider in a big white Stetson and face-mask to appear with his great white stallion and faithful Native American side-kick, to come along and sort it out. Either that or Rin Tin Tin. I’ve always wondered why anyone would call a dog Rin Tin Tin? What does that mean?

However, The Lone Ranger was not always the most welcome of people.

Back in Manor House in 1972 I was living up on the top floor with Liz. Down on the bottom floor there was a guy who was greatly into his vinyl. He was called John.

Going round to John’s was like a religious ceremony. There was a ritual to his playing of music. The selected album would be carefully removed from its sleeve and taken out of its dust-jacket gently and taking care not to get a finger-print on the surface. Both sides would be wiped with an anti-static cloth. The album would be placed on the turntable and the stylus gently lowered. All parties were then expected to reverentially listen without a sound until the side had completed.

John was one of those music buffs for whom the quality of the system mattered. He desired the full gamut of breadth and texture of the aural experience with the complete separation of each instrument.

Music was serious business to John. It was not to be taken lightly. Nobody was allowed near his vinyl. He never lent his albums out and his stereo was the absolute top of the range.

I appreciate music in any form – through crappy car speakers, or a clapped out radio – it matters little. I’ve heard it played through the top quality speakers in professional studios and have to admit that it sounds a lot better, but even so it is the music that ultimately counts, not the sound system. John’s system was as near to perfection as you could get. His albums did not have a single click. It added to the quality but I’m not sure I could be bothered. But to John it was crucial.

Our landlord was 84 years old and was a little confused from time to time. Thus it was that when John went on holiday for four weeks it was a recipe for disaster.

John paid up his rent and went off.

Mr Rose for some reason got it into his head that John had left for

good. He did not like rooms being vacant – which I don’t think it was anything to do with the money – in his opinion a vacant room encouraged vermin.

So Mr Rose went round and emptied the entire contents of John’s flat into the corridor. Most people going into a flat full of possessions would have thought that there was something wrong. Why would anyone leave all their belongings and disappear having paid up the rent? But that did not occur to Mr Rose. The flat was empty and needed someone in it before the mice and rats appeared.

John came back, after a relaxing two weeks, to find his huge collection of over a thousand pristine albums piled up in heaps in an alcove in the corridor, along with his treasured stereo and all the rest of his possessions. Fortunately none of it had gone missing or been tampered with. But that wasn’t the point. This was sacrilege of the first order. His beloved vinyl collection had been treated with utmost disdain. It was sacrilege and he went completely mental.

After stamping and screaming at the bemused Mr Rose he moved his stuff out and took a flat elsewhere.

John then held a farewell party in his old flat. He bought gallons of black gloss paint, rice and paint brushes (along with wine, beer and various other comestibles).

A few days later a totally befuddled Mr Rose asked me to come and help. He could not fathom out what was going on.

He took me down to John’s flat. It was broad daylight but the rooms were inky black. With the light coming in through the doorway we made our way inside over a strange sticky, crunchy floor. None of the lights seems to work and no light was coming in through the windows.

I checked out the bulb in the central light fitting. It was all bobbly. It had been painted with black gloss paint and rice.

We adjourned to get replacement lightbulbs. When we had new lights in the place we looked around in awe. All the walls, ceiling, floors, furniture, sinks, windows, curtains, bed and fittings had been coated with knobbly black gloss paint.

On one wall, in great big white brushstrokes, was painted the words – ‘DON’T FUCK WITH THE LONE RANGER!’

‘Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?’ Mr Rose asked incredulously.

But then he wasn’t a Rock music fanatic was he?

Anecdote – The Missing Archeology of a House – someone is trying to eradicate me!

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Anecdote – The Missing Archeology of a House – someone is trying to eradicate me!

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The Missing Archeology of a House – someone is trying to eradicate me!

Somebody is deliberately eradicating me from history. I know that for a fact. I suspect that once they have eliminated my past they will come for me!

The first house we purchased in Hull was due to be demolished. It was true that we had bought it in a demolition area but all the same it was a bit vindictive and personal. We had lived there for a few years and had our second child in that house. Now they were going to pull it down.

I decided to go back for one last nostalgic look.

As it was the first house we had owned I had personalized it. I had painted bricks around the front door. I had painted the fence (made of upright railway sleepers) magnolia and painted orange, red and green dinosaurs on it that Dylan, our first-born adored. I’d painted ivy up the wall at the back, trailing around the window. I’d made flowerbeds out of old sinks which I’d painted flowers on. Inside I’d painted a mural of Dylan (our son) with the sun, clouds and balloons, playing in the garden with the cat among the flowers. In the stairwell my mate Pete had painted a mural of a scene from Jaberwocky. It was frumulous.

Our house was the end terrace. I drove up the deserted street and weaved around to avoid the bricks and rubble in the road. I parked up and got out. It looked the same. The painted bricks were still around the door. It was open so I went in, stepping over the mound of junk-mail. The mural of Dylan had gone but I wasn’t surprised. It was a bit personal.

The flowers snails and rabbits I’d painted on the mantel-piece had been painted over. They were gone.

Outside in the back garden it was much the same. The fence had become a bit jaded but it was still magnolia and the colourful dinosaurs still roamed the cabbage patch, the ivy still grew up around the window.

I went back inside.

The house had been empty a while and was a little worse for wear. I walked round from room to room allowing my imagination to take me back to the cuddles and laughter. It had been a house of love and warmth.

I noticed that in the front room there was a patch in the corner where the wallpaper had pulled back. I counted fourteen layers.

That intrigued me. I thought that one of those layers was ours. It was as though we were buried in the strata like on an archeological site.

Our paintwork had been distinctive with ochre, brown and the like. It felt as if I could peel back the one or two layers that must have been added since we departed and I would reveal our layer. I started doing it.

It wasn’t there.

I searched through all fourteen layers but there was no sign of ours. I checked another wall; then another. No matter where I looked I could not find our layer.

It was puzzling. I knew that it would have been impossible to remove a single layer without disturbing the layers underneath. Wall[paper did not work that way. Once you’d wetted it and started peeling parts would have come off easy and others would have been hard. I also knew that nobody would have put fourteen layers of wallpaper on in the few years since we left.

Our layer had to be there. I went through the layers meticulously. It was not to be found.

I started feeling a bit uneasy.

I went to a different room and did the same there with identical results. Our distinctive layer was definitely missing.

I became a man with a mission and went from room to room, wall to wall, in search of our life in the house but to no avail.

I tried the stairwell. I knew Pete had painted that scene on the emulsion on the wall. There had not been any paper there at all.

I pried the paper off back to bare plaster. There was no sign of the mural.

It began to feel creepy and a bit scary. I was alone, delving about in an old derelict house and all traces of our occupancy had been systematically removed.

Spooky.