There are photos everywhere in this flat, but the most recent ones are from about 1999. I have albums full of pictures that I took, aged 9, with my first point and shoot camera. Pictures of grass, of icicles, of my pony, of tall ships, of my teddy bear, of my brothers… None of them are great works of art – I have, sadly, not inherited my grandmother’s photographer’s eye – but they all bring back a specific memory. I have cut them into silly shapes and pasted them into the album with captions. I have juxtaposed my own photos with baby pictures taken by my parents. What jumps off the page of these albums is the sheer joy of everything. Everything was exciting, everything worth recording.
Fastforward a few years to early teens. The photos are now of friends. Pulling silly faces, pretending to fall out of a tree, scowling at the camera as I catch them unawares, sitting in a classroom at breaktime, making pot noodles in the common room at night. Dawn, Bonnie, Nikki and me. Dawn was the ringleader, a tall, confident, American girl. Actually, she was English, but didn’t take kindly to being reminded of it – she had been brought up in Washington DC and hated the fact that her parents had chosen to send her to school in England. She was the one who instigated the various hate campaigns that we waged against each other. One day she would decide that everyone was to ignore so-and-so, and the amazing thing is that we all did, despite the fact that we’d been the best of friends the day before. And despite the fact that I knew how miserable and angry I’d been when I was the chosen pariah, I still went along with it when, a few weeks later, it was Nikki’s turn. When the school closed down after being hit badly in the January 1990 storms, we all went our separate ways, swearing undying friendship. When you’re 13 you think you’ll be friends forever, but out of sight out of mind is, sadly, a far truer saying than I would like it to be. I heard that Dawn made head girl in her new school and was glad for her. I think Bonnie went back to Hong Kong. Nikki accosted me on Charing Cross Road a couple of years back, having recognised me from across the street. I was totally nonplussed by this pretty, confident girl calling me Katie – last time I’d seen her she had terrible spots and traintracks on her teeth, and no-one outside my family has called me Katie in years. We swapped email addresses and made plans to meet up, but it never happened.
The GCSE-year photos are cringeworthily embarrassing. Bobbed hair, Rimmel Black Cherry lipstick, bodies, leggings and DM boots. Ali G, Ali H and me, the terrible trio. The photos taken in a passport booth, all three of us crammed in and laughing fit to burst. Smoking at the bus stop and being told, by a 12 year old boy, that I wasn’t doing it right. Photos of hunt balls, of giant crisps, of signing each other’s uniform shirts on the last day before exams started. I made out that I hated that school, and I did hate its small mindedness, but Ali is still one of my best friends 15 years later, and I was actually pretty happy and well-adjusted for a 16 year old.
Boys start to appear in the photos in the A-level years. I say boys, I mean Dan. My first boyfriend and how I loved him. It took me years to get over him. He’s married now, with a baby, and we’re still friends, despite me acting like a crazed lunatic towards him on various occasions. Photos of regattas, of getting drunk in the Soc., of the Leaver’s Ball. A photo of me in a chinese silk dress, made by my mother, with a rose between my teeth and grinning at the camera. The picture was taken by a guy who I’d spent 2 years having a laugh with in English lessons, paying very little attention to the tutor and instead doing the crosswords in that day’s papers. Just after the photo was taken he kissed me passionately and revealed that he’d liked me for ages. I had no idea and dealt with it by taking the piss. Not the best thing to do, looking back on it, but I was 18 and clueless.
Photos of my gap year in Stratford-upon-Avon; hundreds of them. Photos of plays, of costumes, of bloody flowers. One of our shows was Dona Rosita the Spinster, and the stage was decorated with pots of geraniums. We hated that show. Heather got hit by a car on the last night and got rushed off to hospital. We delayed the start of the show and she made it back by the time her scene came around, with her leg strapped up in bandages. Her best friend, Kathryn, was playing the title role and didn’t know if Heather was OK or not, as at the point she’d gone on stage H was still in hospital. Her face when H appeared on stage was brilliant. Photos of all of us meeting up in a pub in Soho after we’d left Stratford, drinking cocktails and ending up in Trafalgar Square worshipping the lions. We had our 10 year reunion this summer – I never thought we’d still be friends 10 years later, but somehow we are, and it’s wonderful.
Photos of drama school, my hair the longest and the blondest it’s ever been. I cut it all off at the end of first year and felt much better for it. Photos of skinny-dipping at somebody’s parents’ house in Wimbledon. Endless photos of the guy that I had a crush on. Photos of my parents’ jack russell terrier, who we roped in as Moonshine’s dog when we did A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and who was pretty much guaranteed to be found with Lisa whenever she disappeared. I was sharing a house with 2 girls and a very morose French guy at the time. One night, Alex was in her room in her pyjamas, with the dog sitting on her bed. Morose French Guy came in and told Alex that he liked her and was that a problem? Trying to think of a nice way to tell him that yes, in fact it WAS a problem, Alex was saved by Tipsy taking against him and scaring him off.
Post drama school is where the photos stop. In physical form, anyway. I do have some digital photos, but they’re nothing like as prolific as in the early years. Digital photography just isn’t as fun. The excitement of getting films back from the chemist was all part of the experience. Even if most of the photos were a disappointment, I could still look at that blurry mess and remember that it was blurred because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t hold the camera still. There’s a lot to be said for that.
(Originally published November 2006)