Adolescence is so cruel. One day maybe I will show these to my boys when they are fretting about spots.
How about these two?
(and let us take a moment to contemplate what an ugly baby I was - moon faced, and baleful with hard boiled eyes that stayed open all night)
How come they have been replaced by this terrifying freak show - 80s rent boy (or member of Bros?) and well, it's indescribable really. Gormless, graceless geek child perhaps?
I remember this photo, and this party. The belly with the tie behind my brother is the Bearded One, and it's one of his work Christmas parties we were both required to attend. As was traditional at these occasions, there was some lovely post-grad marine biologist I was mooning hopelessly over in my tongue tied fashion, and my brother got rat arsed and angry and had to be carried home after publicly berating the Bearded One for his failures as a parent. Happy times.
This one makes me smile - I look like Lady Diana.
I am in my Laura Ashley phase, aged 17, on exchange in Casablanca with Aurélie, who is a model.
Aurélie only eats SlimFast and apples and goes to ballet classes all the time when she isn't with her monosyllabic boyfriend. She barely speaks to me in the three weeks I stay, even though we have to share a bed, and her maid sleeps in the corner of the bedroom on the floor, though she does invite me to watch the filming of a commercial for sweets or shower gel or something she is making. It is during Ramadan, and at the end of the surreal day everyone sits in a giant tent and eats harira and dates.
Morocco is a total revelation for a girl from York- it is ravishing. I completely fall in love with it - food, snow tipped mountains, camels, staying in the medina in Marraakech, riding horses through the desert at sunset. I have never dared go back - how could it be as beautiful as I remember? Aurélie's neglect barely registers with me, since her friend Karim kidnaps me and introduces me to nightclubs, Prefab Sprout and sex. I can see why when I look at this photo - I am the picture of English innocence. It must have been terribly tempting.
Here I am suffering terrible torture yet again at the hands of my father. I must be 15, proudly wearing my paisley shirt with, I vividly remember, electric blue nail varnish. Under the shirt there is some dreadful local York band t-shirt that I am wearing like a badge of honour. I went to a lot of "gigs" as I called them self-consciously, and felt like a total hipster. If it was one of those places where you paid admission and got stamped on the hand, I would try not to wash my hand for at least a week to show off my total hipness. Of course, the whole coolness thing was totally undermined by the fact that I was either chaperoned by one of the band member's mothers, or by my mother's friend Andrew. I am a sort of goth lite. And where am I? I am at some scuzzy rural pub in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales, where my father has been dragging me up and down hills and fulminating about my attitude. I will spend my time gloomily reading novels or old copies of NME between bracing 4 hour walks, and pressing my head to the radio to try and pick up radio one. You can see in this picture that I am trying to decide whether to kill myself, kill him, or merely sulk a little harder.
Just one last one? This is just for the outfits. I mean seriously, the seventies, what a decade. A Clothkits CLOWN SUIT for a birthday party? Yes, yes and thrice yes!