I’ve always written. From the age of 7 I kept a daily diary.
Admittedly my first entries at that age were fairly scant on detail. Whole days
could be summed up thus: “Got up. Went to school. Played football when I got
home. Went to bed.” Marvellous economy with words 😊
Fast forward 25 years to life on the inside - a Dutch winter
on the third floor circa 1986. I was struggling with feeling captive – I had to
live in a Dutch winter to realise how much of an outdoors person I was. In
desperation I took to writing my life story to pass the time. And I think I did
a reasonable job of writing about my life from birth till the time I left
school.
Browsing through long forgotten corners as one does in this time
of COVID I came across a copy of it. What struck me was how much detail it
contained that I have completely forgotten. So here’s a tip – don’t leave writing
about your life till too late. You DO forget things as time passes.
Two snippets:
DAMIEN LEAVES HOME (1966)
We moved back to Adelaide and went to live in a house that
none of us liked very much. It’s only real asset was its proximity to the
school Shaun and I would go to, and Celine’s college. The house was a small
insignificant affair where we were to live for just a few months. Leaving the
country had been a hard decision for my parents to take, and was made even harder
by Damien’s departure for life in a monastery at the ripe old of age of
sixteen. He would be living in Sydney, some 900 miles away. Now Damien and I
had had little to do with each other over the years, save for times when I
hassled him enough for him to lose his temper with me. And yet the strangest
thing happened on the day he left for his new life far away. He departed from
Adelaide airport and I don’t remember saying goodbye to him. However I do
remember very clearly this overwhelming feeling of sadness coming over me as I
gazed out at the plane he was sitting in before it drew away from the terminal.
I withdrew from the crowd of people who’d come to say goodbye, climbed up on a
small wall and stood looking at the plane and cried silently and secretly to
myself. Maybe I had just picked up the obviously heavy emotional vibes that
were floating around (my mother was distraught), but it’s almost as if I knew
that day that there was an exceptional bond between us that I’d only just
discovered, and that I’d miss him very much. It was a turning point in my
relationship with my big brother; from that day on I felt closer to him than
any other member of our family.
SCHOOLBOY REBELLION (1968)
 |
| CC image: Lawrence Jones |
We would as
a matter of course heap shit upon our parents for being too strict, or not
letting us do what we wanted when and where we wanted. These parent slagging sessions
were important for gaining respect within the group - it showed that you were a
rebel. Teachers too of course were prime targets for this kind of shit slinging.
Things came to a head at school one day when this thin pale looking character
wearing a darker suit than normal joined our class in the middle of a Science
lesson. He turned out to be a recently arrived English immigrant who was as it
happened a little more advanced than the rest of us along the road to
rebellion. He was right into pop music, played guitar and wrote his own songs
and poetry, and was willing to speak his mind in class. He made a great
impression on all of us. His style of rebellion was bolder, more direct, and
came with intelligence. It wasn't long before we all clamoured to be his friend
and were proud to be seen to be his friend. The school’s response to this new
figurehead was to try and isolate him from potential disciples. Any group that
was hanging around him in the playground was split up by the teacher on yard
duty. In fact the teachers seemed to have isolated a potential core of
troublemakers that counted about 10 kids with the English lad, Michael D,
at our head. We were not allowed to mingle in the school ground in groups of
more than two or three and at least my parents were warned to discourage any
close friendship with this new disturbing influence. It was silly really. We
were already on our teenage rampage before he came along. All he did was give
it focus.
Michael and
I became close friends. Basically it was a friendship forged through hours of
listening to and talking about pop music. We spent hours on sunny afternoons in darkened rooms listening
to Cream, The Animals, The Rolling Stones, Vanilla Fudge et al and extolling
the virtues of these our new idols. I remember telling Michael one day on the
bus to school that I had bought my first ever record: Love Is All Around by The
Troggs. He was suitably impressed. He had seen The Troggs perform in England - or
so he said. It was always a point of discussion just how true were the many
wonderful stories he used to tell.
