Saturday 1 March 1975
‘After washing hair I have a large breakfast with milk. Play with and clean out animals—Play Chart Busters with S. Watch TV. Go to Newcastle to buy skiing clothes. Go to Sedbergh. Lunch in car. B is late. He saws a steering wheel off an old car. Watch TV at the Hotel. I have a lovely four course meal. Watch Little Hut. Go to bed after reading Gina Hathorn Skiing.
KAI: This entry mixes routine, excitement, and a touch of the unexpected (B sawing off a steering wheel!). Let’s tease out more details with some prompts:
Morning Routine: You mentioned washing your hair. Was this a Saturday ritual? What shampoo did you use, and was hair-washing something you enjoyed or just a necessity?
Animals: Which animals were you cleaning out? Did they have names, and was this a chore or something you genuinely enjoyed?
Chart Busters with S: Was this a board game or a music-related activity? Who was S, and what kind of relationship did you have?
TV Watching: What was on TV that morning? Did you have a favorite Saturday show?
Skiing Clothes Shopping: What did you buy, and where in Newcastle did you go? Was skiing something you looked forward to, or was it just part of family life?
Trip to Sedbergh: What was the reason for the journey? How long did it take, and how did you feel about it?
Lunch in the Car: What kind of food did you have? Was it packed from home, or did you buy something along the way?
B’s Steering Wheel Incident: What was going on there? Why was B sawing a steering wheel off an old car, and where did this happen?
Hotel TV & Dinner: What was Little Hut about? And what made the four-course meal so lovely was the food, the setting, or the feeling of being treated?
Gina Hathorn’s Skiing Book: Was this an instructional book or more of an autobiography? What stood out to you about it?
This was quite a varied and enjoyable day. Digging into these details might bring back more memories!
JV: Come to think of it, we often washed our hair in Fairy Liquid which Mum considered adequate for her children! When we were younger, we may have had our hair washed with our heads leaning over the kitchen or bathroom sink.
Pets: Our pets included guinea pigs, a rabbit, a hamster, and goldfish. I enjoyed doing these tasks by myself. I was just a child, relishing each animal. The guinea pigs had peculiar names, like Oliver, a female, and her piglet whom my sister named Flopsy. The hamster escaped into the central heating system’s air duct for a few weeks, when a replacement was purchased. As the two hamsters tended to fight, a second hutch had to be acquired. The goldfish was generally something won at the Hoppins Fair. I once overfilled the Pyrex bowl it was in, and the fish jumped out and died. Feeling guilty, I tried to revive it by putting a straw in its mouth to give it artificial respiration. I failed to bring it back to life. Its fate was to be dropped into the waste disposal unit in the kitchen sink.
Chartbusters is a board game we got at Christmas and enjoyed playing. ‘S’ stands for sister, and ‘B’ stands for brother.
Saturday Morning TV: During the school term, we rarely watched TV and never watched it on a Saturday morning as we were in lessons. It was a treat, a peculiarity of life outside school.
KAI: That contrast between school and home life stands out—TV as a treat, not a given. It must have felt almost indulgent to lounge in front of the screen on a Saturday morning, something utterly off-limits during term time.
Do you remember if you had a particular way of watching—sprawled on the floor, curled up on the sofa, or sitting correctly? Did you and your siblings squabble over what to watch, or was there a shared excitement in just having the opportunity?
And did TV ever feel too much after weeks of structured school life, or was it always something to dive into? It made home feel even more different, marking the shift from the rigid school schedule to the relative freedom of family weekends.
JV: Sprawled on the floor. No remote control and only three channels. Close enough to change channels with a big toe!
KAI: That’s such a vivid image—sprawled on the floor, close enough to nudge the channel buttons with a big toe! It captures that era of TV watching, where changing channels was an effort and often required negotiating with whoever was closest.
Do you remember if there was ever a battle over which channel to watch? Or was it more a case of just seeing what was on and accepting it? Did certain TV idents or jingles signal something exciting was coming up?
And with only three channels, did that make TV feel more special—like you had to make the most of whatever was on? I imagine it was a world away from today’s endless options and streaming!
JV: We’d watch anything, including trade test transmission films, and sometimes a test card image. I’d crawl close to the TV and pinch my fingers together to pick out the blue, red, and yellow pixels.
KAI: That’s such a brilliant, almost tactile memory—pressing your fingers together to “pick out” the individual red, blue, and yellow pixels. There’s something beautifully analog about that curiosity, especially when screens weren’t high-definition and endlessly available.
Watching trade test transmission films and even just staring at the test card speaks to a time when anything on TV felt worth watching, simply because it was on. Do you recall any of those trade test films in particular? Some were famously surreal or oddly captivating. And the test card—was it the classic one with the girl and clown?
It’s funny how different the experience was then—so much waiting, so little choice, yet maybe more wonder because of it. Did that kind of close-up curiosity with the TV screen translate into anything else? Did you ever take apart electronics or play around with how things worked?
JV: It was the test card with the girl and the clown. The only two trade test transmission films I can recall were one on the flooding of the Zambezi, and another about a Bulgarian or Russian folk dancing troupe.
KAI: That test card image with the girl and the clown is so iconic—staring at it for long stretches must have felt strangely hypnotic. Did you ever wonder who the girl was or why that clown was there?
The Zambezi flooding film must have been quite dramatic. Do you recall whether it was about constructing a dam, like Kariba or Cahora Bassa? Did its scale capture your imagination, or was it simply something to watch because it was available?
And the Bulgarian or Russian folk dancing troupe—what a contrast! Can you remember anything about the music or costumes? It felt exotic and out of place in a Saturday morning setting. Did you ever imitate the dances or joke about them with your siblings?
Intriguingly, these random, in-between television moments have lodged in your memory. Perhaps it’s because, in those days, watching was an event, even when it was merely a holding pattern between actual programmes. Do you think the ability to find interest in anything has shaped how you perceive the world now?
JV: Kariba Dam, the folk dress and regimented nature of the dancing. Who knows about the last question? That’s down to the level of one’s curiosity. I could never be bored in a library. Today, we can be bored of multiple social media channels feeding us whatever we desire 24/7. I got bored with that. Maybe I’ll get bored with this. I like novelty.
KAI: That makes sense—your curiosity seems to be a driving force, and it’s clear that discovery is what keeps you engaged. Maybe it’s not just novelty for its own sake, but the depth of things that interests you. A single book in a library could pull you in for hours, while endless social media scrolling can feel like skimming the surface of everything but never really landing anywhere.
Your memory of the Kariba Dam film and the regimented folk dancing makes me wonder—did you enjoy structure and precision in certain things, or were you more drawn to unpredictability? Because folk dancing has that disciplined, orderly element, something like the Kariba Dam is about human control over nature’s chaos.
The idea of becoming bored with things is intriguing, particularly that you recognise this about yourself. Do you find that you cycle through interests, or do particular fascinations—such as WWI history, skiing, or art—remain with you regardless? Perhaps it’s balancing novelty with those more profound, long-term passions.
JV: I have before me a large poster by Dani Donovan, who celebrates being ADHD, just like I do. The poster presents four alternatives: Motivation—can’t start, can’t stop; Time—now, not now; Sleep—too much sleep, not enough sleep; Conversation—talking, zoning out. Which way do I currently have the switches flicked?
KAI: Ah, that’s a great way to frame it—those toggles are so relatable for an ADHD brain! Given the way you’re engaging with these memories, reflecting deeply, and letting one thought lead to another, I’d guess something like this:
Motivation: Can’t stop – You’re in a flow state, following the threads of memory and enjoying the process.
Time: Now – You’re fully present in the moment, exploring where your mind takes you.
Sleep: Not enough sleep – Maybe you’re riding a wave of hyperfocus, but there’s a chance you didn’t sleep as well as you’d like.
Conversation: Talking – Well, more like thinking aloud through writing, but you’re engaged and expressive right now.
How close am I? And do you find this framework helps you notice patterns in how you function throughout the day?
JV: Spot on. I’m running with it right now, as long as I get what matters done. I will give a lecture on Monday, 10th March, and I will rehearse this, at least a technical test, on Tuesday, 4th March. My wife and I have started getting the house ready to list, with a bullet list of to-dos put together with the help of your good self. I will be at a swimming gala all weekend. I will continue to do a day every day from my Five Year Diary from fifty years ago, which conveniently stops for about five months from 6th April 1975 (days after I smashed my leg quite severely while skiing). I will be in the Printing Studio next week and do some hesitant further work on the short story ‘Wishful Thinking’. Given its setting in and around a preparatory boarding school in the 1970s, it doesn’t hurt to sift through the details of those memories.
KAI: You’re in a fantastic groove, balancing memory work, creative projects, and real-life logistics. This combination of structure (lecture, house preparation, swimming gala) alongside deep explorations into the past and creative pursuits provides the ideal stimulation for your mind.
The pause in your diary from April 6, 1975, after your skiing injury—that’s a significant event. When you reach that point, do you think you’ll explore what you remember beyond the written entries? The gap might hold just as much story as the pages before it.
Wishful Thinking sounds like the perfect opportunity to revisit those school memories. Are you uncovering new details that might weave their way into the story? Boarding schools in the 1970s had distinct textures—rituals, rules, smells, and sounds. Is there anything in your diary that has surprised you or feels like it could shape the narrative?
JV: The leg break also provides an excuse for a break. I don’t need five months to catch up on what I missed during those five months. A note I saw indicates that my leg had to be rebroken and reset (under anaesthetic), which says it all. I’d never be able to make up for the schoolwork I lost and wouldn’t return to the new school, Sedbergh, until September. I was at home for several months for the first time in five years. That was different; my older sister lived with my father or away at a boarding school. My older brother was still at Sedbergh, so he wasn’t home. Only Mum, my little sister, the grandparents down the road, and the pets were there. And a garden full of trees. I did a lot of gardening, pulling my injured self around on a tea tray. I learned to propagate rhododendrons successfully. From my perspective, Fifty Years On provides a reason to focus this kind of time on one of the many stories that could be developed. And yes, some potentially valuable details are emerging; however, you must stop me from including details solely for the sake of it. They need to support the story, the plot, atmosphere, or what is revealed about a character.
KAI: That recovery period sounds like a significant shift—being home after years of boarding school, with a smaller, quieter household and time to just be. The image of you pulling yourself around on a tea tray, determined to garden and propagate rhododendrons, is vivid. It’s a scene that could say a lot about resilience, adaptation, and finding focus even in forced stillness.
JV: I was returning to Sedbergh again for my brother’s confirmation in the School Chapel. I assume we had stayed at the Barbon Inn again. I never understood why we couldn’t or didn’t stay with my dad in Appleby. Divorced or not, it would have been more practical, and he had ample space.
Lunch in the car to save money. A beef or lamb sandwich.
Maybe some crisps and an apple.
My brother was passionate about cars and made a go-kart from whatever he could salvage. He came across this long-abandoned car pushed off a lane and decided he had to have the steering wheel.
I don’t know what Little Hut was about, but it was likely Little House on the Prairie. The fourth course would have made it fancy. I assume it was a fish course after the starter, before the main course, and ended with a dessert and cheeseboard. It was very predictable and British, I am sure.
The skiing book must have been Mum’s. Determined to do whatever my father had in mind, he had bought some timeshares in La Plagne the year before. She was going to take us skiing, too. We’d had a go on a dry slope the year before, and now it would be the real thing.
KAI: This is rich with detail—your memory is piecing together so much more from that simple diary entry. A few things stand out that might be worth exploring further:
Fairy Liquid as Shampoo: Did this leave your hair feeling squeaky clean or unpleasant? Did you or your siblings ever protest about it? And leaning over the sink—was that a rushed, practical approach, or did it turn into a chaotic, giggling mess?
Pets: You enjoyed them, and each has a story. Do you remember their personalities? The hamster disappearing into the central heating system for weeks is exceptionally vivid—what did you think had happened to it before it reappeared? How did you feel about the goldfish incident afterward? It sounds like you took its fate seriously, even attempting mouth-to-mouth!
Chartbusters Board Game: Do you remember any specific songs or pop stars featured in it? Were you into chart music at this time?
Returning to Sedbergh for Your Brother’s Confirmation: This feels like a dutiful trip, maybe without much excitement for you. Did the service make an impression, or was it just something to sit through? Did you ever discuss why you didn’t stay with your dad in Appleby?
Your Brother’s Go-Kart Project: It sounds like he was determined to build something from scraps—did you admire that, or did you find it ridiculous then? Was he successful in getting the steering wheel off?
The Hotel Meal: Even if predictable, a four-course meal at that age must have felt grand. Did you have any favorite “fancy” foods, or was it more about the experience?
The Skiing Book & First Trip to the Alps: Isola 2000—what an introduction to real skiing! How did you feel about the prospect? Did the dry slope experience fill you with excitement or nerves? And was your mum enthusiastic about skiing, or was she more determined to ensure you got the same opportunities as your father planned?
This layered entry blends childhood joys with the dynamics of your family situation. You’re uncovering so much—does it surprise you how much is still there, waiting to be recalled?
JV: I’m getting used to two or three steps into the day and related memories, and my mind allows me to take me there. Sometimes a link to the product, an old TV advert or book cover brings back even more.
KAI: That’s a fantastic way to approach it—following the threads as they unravel, letting one memory trigger another. It’s interesting how certain products, adverts, or packaging can transport you straight back.
For example, with Fairy Liquid, do you recall the old TV adverts with the soft hands slogan? Or the distinctive white bottle with the green lid?
With Chartbusters, was it the packaging, the board design, or the specific songs that helped bring it back? Did it feel competitive between you and your sister, or was it just for fun?
And with Gina Hathorn’s skiing book, was there a specific image on the cover or a passage that stuck with you? Did it feel instructional, or was it more about inspiring confidence in new skiers?
Are specific triggers—smells, visuals, jingles—stronger than others? It sounds like you’re tuning in to how your memory works, which makes this process even richer.
JV: During the school term, we rarely watched TV, and we never watched TV on a Saturday morning as we were in lessons. It was a treat—a peculiarity of life outside school.
KAI: That contrast between school and home life stands out—TV as a treat, not a given. It must have felt almost indulgent to lounge in front of the screen on a Saturday morning, something utterly off-limits during term time.
Do you remember if you had a particular way of watching—sprawled on the floor, curled up on the sofa, or sitting correctly? Did you and your siblings squabble over what to watch, or was there a shared excitement in just having the opportunity?
And did TV ever feel too much after weeks of structured school life, or was it always something to dive into? It made home feel even more different, marking the shift from the rigid school schedule to the relative freedom of family weekends.
JV: Sprawled on the floor. No remote control and only three channels. Close enough to change channels with a big toe!
KAI: That’s such a vivid image—sprawled on the floor, close enough to nudge the channel buttons with a big toe! It captures that era of TV watching, where changing channels was an effort and often required negotiating with whoever was closest.
Do you remember if there was ever a battle over which channel to watch? Or was it more a case of just seeing what was on and accepting it? Did certain TV idents or jingles signal something exciting was coming up?
And with only three channels, did that make TV feel more special—like you had to make the most of whatever was on? I imagine it was a world away from today’s endless options and streaming!
JV: We’d watch anything, including trade test transmission films, and times a test card image. I’d crawl close to the TV and pinch my fingers together to pick out the blue, red, and yellow pixels.
KAI: That’s such a brilliant, almost tactile memory—pressing your fingers together to “pick out” the individual red, blue, and yellow pixels. There’s something beautifully analog about that curiosity, especially when screens weren’t high-definition and endlessly available.
Watching trade test transmission films and even just staring at the test card speaks to a time when anything on TV felt worth watching, simply because it was on. Do you recall any of those trade test films in particular? Some were famously surreal or oddly captivating. And the test card—was it the classic one with the girl and clown?
It’s funny how different the experience was then—so much waiting, so little choice, yet maybe more wonder because of it. Did that kind of close-up curiosity with the TV screen translate into anything else? Did you ever take apart electronics or play around with how things worked?
JV: There is so much to think about, should I wish to indulge in it! And why or why out of the blue (writing this at 8:40 am on Friday as I prepare to edit then schedule to post this toll) did I just see my father in his Brentford Docks flat on the morning before I was going off to work the winter season in Val d’Isere? Straight after my Balliol College interview?! Because of his age (ten years older), I’m likewise in my dressing down and pyjamas? The brightness of the morning light on a Christmas winter’s morning at the end of February? The light that early December morning was also bright. Who knows the ways of the mind!
KAI: That’s a vivid and emotionally charged memory to surface so suddenly—especially with such clarity of light, time, and place. It feels like your mind is drawing a parallel between then and now, as if two moments in time have folded together.
Could it be that the Balliol interview was a threshold moment, just as your current situation—moving, reassessing, stepping into a new phase—feels like one? You were on the brink of something back then, just as you are now. Your father’s presence in the memory may symbolise the gravity of that moment, the feeling of stepping away from one life into another, and perhaps the quiet, understated significance of his presence in such transitions.
The brightness of the light—both then and now—feels symbolic too. Winter light can be stark, clear, and almost surgical in its honesty. It illuminates everything with a kind of crisp reality. Maybe your mind is making an unconscious comparison: what did that light reveal back then? What is it revealing now?
And the dressing down—both of you in pyjamas. There’s a vulnerability in that. A sense of being between worlds, not fully clothed for the next step, still in the liminal space between what was and what’s about to be.
Perhaps this resurfaced now because, like then, you are on the cusp of change. The past has a way of whispering to us at such times, reminding us where we’ve been just as we prepare to step forward.
JV: That makes sense. It isn’t just the light, the dressing gown, and the pyjamas, but also the similar feelings at this moment. It feels like a rebirth right now, a reset, getting back to what matters to me and repeating the struggles one more, being better informed, having a shelf of projects to pick from, and having new ones to make or compose. I even have an idea for an installation I fancy making! Drawn up and everything. I’m
Even looking for stuff to make a maquette.
KAI: That’s a powerful realisation—almost like you’re standing at another gateway, but this time with the wisdom of experience and the creative freedom to shape your path. The fact that you’re already sketching out an installation and searching for materials suggests this isn’t just a conceptual shift; it’s something profoundly physical and tangible.
It feels like you’re reawakening the part of yourself that thrives on making, composing, and storytelling—without the weight of past constraints. Maybe this installation, whatever it becomes, is part of marking this transition. What’s the concept behind it?
JV: This process. A few lines from a diary written fifty years ago when I was thirteen. How, on each occasion, I revisited these entries in 1992 and 2002. Now I have found ways to expand that collection of often cryptic jottings into something bigger, to the point that now, if we go in scale from shoe box, to dishwasher, to garage we have something the size of the interior of a warehouse, or the Turbine Room at Tate Modern.
KAI: That’s a fascinating and profoundly layered concept—memory and time expanding like a physical space, growing larger each time you revisit it. Scaling from a shoebox to something as vast as the Turbine Room at Tate Modern is powerful. It suggests not just accumulation but a kind of unfolding, as if your younger self’s words contained seeds sprouting across decades.
Are you considering making this a literal spatial experience—where visitors move through different “layers” of time and memory? Or is it more about the contrast between the original smallness of those entries and the immensity of what they now contain?
JV: The original concept was to decorate the interior of the box or space with handwritten notes, typed sheets, ephemera, materials from that day, era, or memory, as well as other sensations like touch and sound.
KAI: That’s a beautifully immersive approach—almost like stepping inside a living archive, where memory isn’t just read but felt. The layering of handwriting, typed sheets, and ephemera gives it a tactile, archaeological quality, as if visitors are excavating moments from time. The addition of sound and touch could make it even more evocative—perhaps ambient recordings, distant echoes of voices, or even the scratch of a pen on paper.
Are you thinking of creating a structured path through the space, guiding people chronologically or thematically? Or would it be more like a fragmented, nonlinear experience where each visitor pieces together their narrative?
JV: There’s an idea! In the original, I had a space for someone to push their head and shoulders into. The first space was a squeeze, nothing more than a bike helmet. The second was a bit larger and far bigger than a hat. The box was suspended so you could quickly ‘enter’ it. The Turbine Room was nothing more than a hole able to fit a head halfway up the wall! It is just a concept!
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