ten, twenty, thirty, forty

...if you can read this line then this post isn't finished...

A couple of weeks ago I went surfing with Mr. DJ. We spent a fun 45minutes in the water getting cold, falling over a lot and generally not being very good at surfing. And that was it. We went back to our family business and got on with the things you get on with when you're in your 40s and have two kids.

Wind the clock back 10years and the same Mr. DJ and I were diving almost every weekend. We sometimes dived midweek afetr work. We dived a lot. We talked about diving over pizzas and beers. We pretty well did whatever the hell we wanted to. A lot has changed in 10years. And that got me thinking...What was life like 10 years ago? Twenty? Thirty, even 40? So here I go.

40

Forty years ago I was 2 and can't honestly say I "remember" anything. I have a few "snapshot" memories of places I may have been and things I may have seen. They could be memories of things that never actually happened. So this is a bit of guestimate of what things may have been like, pieced together from the few things I believe I know about my early days.

Forty years ago I lived in Heyford Avenue in London, SW8. I lived with my mum and dad on the ground floor of a terraced house. The front door was red and we shared a bathroom. Lambeth was a poor area (it looks a bit nicer today) and we were a poor family. My folks had not lived in London for long and they had started life in the capital in the basement of a hotel where my godfather worked. Although they made no big deal of it my parents were properly poor. There were times when the family probabaly survived on whatever dad won on the dogs or horses; it stands to reason there were times when he was not so lucky. I don't remember suffering or struggling. Dad told me once that mum and he went two days with nothing to eat but a packet of fruit pastels. Mind you, he did talk a load of old rubbish sometimes...

I remember that red front door, I remember a dark flat. I remember a corner shop with a mynah bird that could, according to dad, talk. Once a mouse put its front feet on one of mum's clogs while she was ironing. We didn't watch television because I would scream the place down if it was switched on. Dad had a big, bushy beard and when he shaved it off I didn't recognise him and wouldn't talk to him. My first word, which may have come when I was around 2, was "hello." A friend arrived and I said, clear as day, "hello." All of this is according to dad, and all of it is my truth.

My sister died at birth when I was 2 and nearly took mum with her. If I am going back exactly 40years then the heartache must have been horribly fresh. Sheila - that was, or would have been, her name - died on Friday 31st March 1972. Good Friday. I remember dad once - and only once - telling me he failed to see what was so good about Good Friday. He told that me that I'd said (obviously later) that she must have been special if God wanted her straight away. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.

Two years old is a wonderful age. How must it be to have a two year old toddling around while dealing with that? Dad had walked away from his first marriage and first two sons; he never saw them again because he believed that was the best thing for them. He had no money, a new wife, a small son and the loss of a baby to deal with. Where do you find that sort of strength? I never want to find out. I did idly wonder if those early days had a bearing upon the person I grew up to be? I don't know.

30

By age 12 we lived in a 4 bedroom house in Morden and I had a brother of 8. The house was part of the Haig Homes, charity housing for disabled ex-servicemen. We moved in when I was 4 , at about the time my brother was born. Dad had worked for the post office for a while but by 1982 his arthritis prevented him from keeping a job. When his back was bad he was unable to walk and he laid flat on a board - I think it was the side of an old wardrobe - until he could walk again. He did some PR and publicity work for a nightclub-owning friend to supplement his pension. He still liked to gamble. Mum was the support, he rock. She kept the house and looked after me, my brother and my dad.

We still didn't have much money. I'd been through a Dr Who phase; mum had knitted me a 15ft long scarf a-la Tom Baker's Dr and dad made a Tardis from an empty ice-cream cone box. The only time I remember feeling poor was once when I went out after school with some friends and they laughed because they knew what trousers I'd be wearing. I only had one pair of semi-fashionable pants. But I don't remember being particularly bothered by it. I remember thinking that going and hanging out in a park after dark was...a bit dull. I now look back fondly on that; my parents couldn't buy me the toys other kids had...so they did their best to make them. Our furniture was a mix and match old bits and pieces. We had a coal fire but no central heating of double glazing. Whenever Sal complains about the cold I tell her that I remember waking up with ice on the inside of our windows. She's a bit over hearing that from me.

I was at Morden Farm Middle School. I had a few close friends, one of whom is still a good friend now. My friends were a varied bunch, but as I got older I slotted in with the reasonably-smart-half-decent-at-sport middle of the road bunch. I was a fairly decent sprinter and academically I did pretty well. I don't remember a lot about school days. I had one or two minor scraps, got into a little bit of trouble along with everyone else, but I was a good kid and kept my nose pretty clean. I walked to and from school. I think I read my first James herbert novels at about age 12.

My paternal grandmother had bought me a fishing rod and reel when I was 11. Angling's gain was the church's loss.  I stopped going to church and stopped singing in the choir. I replaced the income (50p per wedding I appeared at) with a paper round. I'd been friends with the vicar's son, an adopted Vietnamese boy. But that friendship fizzled as I started fishing most weekends.

Each weekend we would go and stay with my maternal grandparents in Mytchett. Mum and dad would  spend the nights at Lakeside Country Club and I would spend the days fishing. My grandparents lived on a decent sized block and an aunt, uncle and their twin sons lived in a caravan on the same block. There was a cow shed at the back, rabbits and bantems (small chickens.) My cousins would pick on me and I was probably glad to spend so much of my time fishing. I really must ask what my brother used to do.

I do remember something I did with my brother. One winter we walked out over the top of the frozen lake behind my grandparents house. Was that when I was 12? Maybe it was. There was a photo that would have helped me remember; I can see the picture in my mind's eye...but I have no photos from back then. More fond memories; my parents were happy for their kids to walk out over frozen lakes by themselves. They were happy for me to go out fishing through the day and night by myself, although dad would often accompany me and mum would occasionally come along too. How many parents would do that nowadays?

20

Coming back to this after a few days, so not sure how this will go, but let's see.

Twenty years ago and I had my degree in Accounting in Finance that was, apart form being a degree, pretty useless. I had half-heartedly tried to get a job with an accounting firm but was at a bit of a loose end. I was working as a hospital porter, delivering and collecting bed linen and clothes at various hospitals. I was based mainly at St. Ebbas, a hospital for the mentally and physically handicapped. I drove an electric cart around the grounds, which was fun, the job provided plenty of exercise as I hefted stacks of sheets up and down stairs and in and out of my truck. It was job and knock; so once I'd done the afternoon delivery it was home time. I did the deliveries alone. Pat, her daughter and daughter-in-law worked in the laundry sorting clothes for the residents and bagging them. On a good day I'd pick up the previous day's dirties, drop them off and load the cart with linen. I'd deliver the linen and come back, collect the clean clothes and deliver them and then chuff off.

St Ebbas was a depressing place. The wards were tatty and the residents seemed to have been largely forgotten about. But I'd chat to a few of the more lucid ones. Some of the conversations were the same every day ("my mum's coming today" and "I think it's going to rain" regardless of the weather.) There was one guy whose name I've forgotten; he was wheelchair bound and a real mess. He would be wheeled in front of a TV each day. His face was covered in drool and I struggled to understand what he said. His head lolled over to one side and the fingers on one hand were mostly gone - he had chewed them down himself. I suspect most people would have given him a wide berth, but if you took the time to speak to him you would learn that he had a fabulous football knowledge. Twenty years later it brings me to the verge of tears thinking about the conditions he lived in. I wish I could remember his name.

Socially I was in the beer years. A shifting group of 7 mates were hitting it pretty hard at weekends. We didn't travel far and enjoyed each other's company, talking shit and getting on it. I'd go to rock concerts at night, up to the West End at the weekend or to see Wimbledon FC play at "home" at Selhurst Park or away somewhere or other. Id go to the football with my brother. I'm not sure when my brother and I started to socialise. I think the 4years age difference (he's younger) kept us apart until we were both of drinking age. I don't know, maybe his memory is better than mine. We certainly went to plenty of concerts and matches together. He'll dispute my relative use of the word "plenty" because he takes things near to extremes.

At some point in my 22nd year I completed an Operation Raleigh (to become Raleigh International) selection weekend. My motivation was partly my being-at-a-loose end but was mainly because an ex-girlfriend I was still friends with had told me that I'd not get through it. Red rag, bull. I "passed" if that is the right word and in 1993 went to Chile for three months. But I was 23 then, so that should be another post. The selection weekend comprised physical, mental and survival challenges. No watches, no food. Map and compass to locate food, build a camp for the night, hike all over the place. It was good fun. Among other things, I learned how to skin a rabbit. In fact I had some practice; I'd told my folks what I was doing and dad - got to love him - found a dead rabbit while out driving and brought it home. I got some practice in the garden.

At age 22 I was not too close to my parents, at least not close enough to sit down and take the time to learn more about them, to becomes friends with them if you like. Bad decision - no, a failure to make a good decision - as it turns out. Before the year was out I was to discover that mum had malignant melanoma. I remember coming home one day after she'd seen the doctor and jokily asking "so how long have you got then?" The answer was "Could be years, could be weeks." Yep, I was a real fucking prick back then. I can't tell you how I felt because I don't remember. We'd had family friends die of cancer but it had never touched me. I guess it was unreal. Right to the end it remained unreal.

And on that note, Harriette is about to wake up and I'm about to have a fish finger sarnie. I'll be back in 2002.

10

By 2002 I'd  bought and sold my first home, been engaged and then not, my mum had died and I'd emigrated to Australia. When I stopped being engaged I lost a lot of friends, half of my savings and close to all of my furniture. So I'd sort of had the opportunity to start over in Australia in 2000 and two yers later things were pretty good.

I had a flat overlooking Sydney Harbour, a well-paid job at St George Bank and was diving regularly with a new group of mates. Sal had moved in by then. We both worked at the bank. Hardly the most exciting of jobs; I had started as a contractor on a three month stint but the bank had taken over my sponsorship and I was fulltime. On my way to residency (and later citizenship) I was getting a LAFHA - living away from home allowance. Basically I could claim all sorts of things against my taxable income. Things like rent. Hence the flat overlooking the Harbour. It was a 2 bed place in a block of six and was on the top floor. I could walk to the Harbour and jump on a ferry to the city, walk up the hill to the Oaks and any number of decent restaurants and also a walk away was the dive store, Dive 2000.

Almost every Saturday I would turn up and go for a dive with whoever else turned up. People came and went but there was a core of divers who were always there. I got on well with the guys who owned and worked in the store, the divemasters and instructors. It was really very social; turn up, check the weather and the tides, fill tanks and head to one of Sydney's many shore-dive sites. After the dive we'd head back and often go and grab something to eat. I think I was easing back on the beers, but we'd still head out for a few, or I'd head up the coast to see Sal folks. There were dive weekends away and in the winter I'd go snowboarding on the small but adequate ski fields.

Ten years ago I also lost my invincibility. I put my back out a couple of times. I remember the first time; I had been helping with a dive course at Camp Cove, lugging tanks and gear about. All good. And then as I bent down to put my wetsuit on I felt as if I'd been stabbed in the back. Immobile for several seconds I managed to straighten myself up, finish getting my gear on and go for a dive. It was a few days off of my feet after that. I remember needing to roll off of the sofa onto all fours, then place my hands on the sofa and ease myself upright. In hindsight the dive was probably not too smart. I started seeing a chiropractor for a while after that, which seemed like a good idea - but not something I do these days.

I had haemorrhoids when I was 32. That year remains the only one in which something has made it's way into and not out of my arse. I paid a doctor $125 to shove a greased, gloved finger up my bum and tell me there wasn't really a lot wrong. The phrase "if you could roll onto your side so your facing the wall and pull your knees up to your chest" remains one of my least favourite.

But apart from that I was fairly fit and healthy and doing well. I'd speak to dad once a week and see how he was doing. It was a mixed bag of news. His new wife was a bit of a handful. She had had a rough time earlier in life and I suspect dad and her got together when they were both in need of someone - and a drink. Dad eased back on the drink but it had got hold of her. Dad knew he'd made a mistake, or at least he came to that conclusion eventually, but they ended up on good terms. He saved her life; I think that was good for him, but it took a lot out of him when he should have been getting more out of life. I was back in the UK between 2003 and 2006 and spent some time living at home before finding a flat Sal and me. Did I know he had cancer in 2002? I don't know.

As it happens I didn't by a long way. Well according to earlier blog posts that I could have done without reading.