That look on my face I’d now describe as smug satisfaction; I’d managed to do something photo-worthy and felt chuffed to tiny bits .
Aged (I’m guessing by the school tie, which was Primary) about 7 or 8, I’d spent a good week or so sitting at the dining table in the living room carefully copying this Snow White scene from my Walt Disney book onto a length of wallpaper remnant and felt justifiably proud of the finished result.
This masterpiece then went on to grace the back of the fishtank which sat in my Great Grandmother’s Nursing Home and where I was once again bestowed with all kinds of enthusiastic and grateful comments. I loved me a bit of praise and encouragement when I was younger and I don’t think I ever grew out of it (who does?).
The orange tablecloth in the photograph must’ve been a relatively recent purchase as I remember this came out every time anybody did anything ‘crafty’ on it; Dad would sit for hours painstakingly building model Airfix aircraft on it, my brother, when he was older would sit and paste football cards into his Leeds United book, and whenever I sat to do homework on it, it also came out then, and become covered (and I mean completely) in scribbles and doodles of pop stars I loved, words from songs that meant something to me, names of friends I’d become best buddies with and then scribbled out when we’d argued, quotes from the books I was studying for O/A-level – you name it – it was scrawled on this orange tablecloth. It would’ve made a wonderful piece of reminiscent history today and I wish somebody had thought to have kept it for old times’ sake. Trouble is, we never do, do we? I suppose to mum and dad it was a messy old tablecloth that deserved nothing less than the dustbin after we’d finished with it.
If we’d had mobile phones back then, then I’d definitely have taken a few shots of parts of that orange tablecloth; it’s stitched into the fabric of my childhood.