I had a wonderful day yesterday . . .
And I’d just like to share a little of it here—I’ll probably put more of it either in my occasional blog or the PS one. We’ll see how it goes in terms of your reaction. (Certainly it’ll enable me to start some of the framework for the actual project.)
For some considerable time, I’ve wanted to write a cross between an autobiography and a semi-fantastical thriller so I’ve been having meetings with people from my past—both my earlier working life and my childhood and adolescent friendships—to get more information.
Things have been going fairly well but I had two big gaps, both of them regarding friends from the late 1950s through to the early 1970s. For many years I have been unsuccessful in tracking down those friends—Jeremy Roberts, a friend from my days at Leeds Grammar School who, last I heard, was a psychiatrist in Canada; and Richard Hackett, who lived nearby in the northern Leeds suburb of Headingley. I’m still drawing a blank on Jem (Jeremy Keith Alken Roberts, to use his full name in case anyone can point me in the right direction) but thanks to my accountant, Brian (who has always fancied himself as a gumshoe PI), I’ve managed to get in touch with Rick . . . after almost 40 years.
I think Rick was initially a little puzzled by my call but he agreed to a meet-up back in Headingley . . . the starting point venue to be the house where he and his mother lived all that time ago. Well, yesterday was the day and I have to tell you what an absolute joy it was. Sometimes you do something and, despite the best intentions in the world, things just don’t work. Well, this one was different and I feel like sharing it.
We spent a few hours wandering the streets of Headingley—no longer a regular community but now little more than a student dormitory for Leeds University whose campus begins properly only a mile or so away—and I even had the opportunity to visit #6 Derwentwater Terrace where I spent the years 1958-1968 (when I was 8 through 18). The house is currently undergoing student bedsit conversion, although the guys working the cement-mixer allowed me into the house. Mum and dad are long gone now, alas, but I could feel them by my shoulder as I walked around and stood in the tiny garden trying to catch a glimpse of my long-ago self sitting cross-legged on the garage roof reading DC comicbooks.
Rick and I then walked around Becketts Park, where we spent so many of our evenings together practicing our vocal harmonies. We were in several groups—The Cave Dwellers (pop—I’d forgotten about that one), The Bone Idols (soul), The Sound Waves (surf) and Raspberry Seedless and the Jamjars (psychedelia, as if you hadn’t guessed) and I recall our early ‘gigs’ in the auditorium (long gone, of course) in Bennett Road to which—on foot, we didn’t have a car—my father used to help me carry my drum kit. And I even called around at the house of my then girlfriend, Pauline, staring up at the bathroom window where, one dark night with a paper-wrapped parcel of fish and chips, I threw some pebbles and she opened the sash window fully disrobed. (Pauline, if by any strange stroke of fate you ever get to see this, I just wanted to say Hi!)
But, oh, my word . . . what memories. I’m going to have the time of my life working on this—working title OLDEN DAYS AND AIRSHIPS—and I may share bits of it with you if anyone’s interested.
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