The best Christmas present this year was a photo album (on disk, of course) that my tech-savvy parents had painstakingly put together for each of us children. One disk contained general family pictures, carefully scanned newspaper articles, and our occasional radio appearance; the other just pictures featuring us -- or in my case, me and my cats. You see, after 1982, there are remarkably few pictures of me until, oh, now. It's as if I'd been shipped off to an asylum for a decade at a time, occasionally emerging for graduation or a wedding. Looking through those photos that do exist though, I'm not surprised I was so reticent about appearing in front of the camera: I have truly atrocious hair in most of them. It's not Flock of Seagulls or Miss Katie's teenage perm embarrassing, but just badly cut for the most part. Pudding bowl variations in the 1970s, wedge cuts with the odd Princess Di flick in the 1980s, and of the 1990s there's no record.
However, there are some gems on the disk, photos that I'm not ashamed to share with the world. I particularly like this one of me and my big brother on Horseshoe Common in Bournemouth. And having just reread John Wyndham's The Midwich Cuckoos, I rather think Simon looks like the "children" in that novel -- blond hair and all. I, meanwhile, look faintly disturbed and have that lovely pudding bowl chop. Good times.
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