I have reached that stage in life when the last of the famous faces from my childhood are shuffling off their mortal coils. At some level, this does feel somewhat as though my childhood itself is dying – though, in other ways, my inner child remains strong and vital. Perhaps surprisingly given my current incarnation, it is not the loss of the musicians of my youth that affects me but people from the television and radio. In my quondam days, music was little more than background (so far as I can recall), the main elements of my life were books (mostly speculative fiction), radio comedy and the television – mostly watching shows that will not have stood the test of time (and which I shall be careful not to re-watch to preserve the pleasures of my youth unsullied by the greater discernment of my middle age).
It was a few weeks ago that we lost Peter Firman, the last of the founders of Smallfilms, whose animated treasures were such a highlight of my early years. This drove me to YouTube to seek out the first episode of Noggin the Nog and the Tales of the Northlands in which he starred. This pre-dated even me – I must have seen rather later repeats – but even after more than 40 years it was so familiar and I had never forgotten Graculus. I’m sure everyone has fond feelings for the television of their early years but I feel there was something particularly special and charming about the work of Smallfilms that later generations were denied.
Of course, with YouTube in front of me and my brain soused in nostalgia, I couldn’t leave it at just watching Noggin. Eventually, I found myself watching one of the weirdest cartoons of my youth: Ludwig. Adult me was unsurprised to discover that it was the brainchild of a Czech animator but I did find it much more luridly coloured than I remembered (probably because we only had a black and white television). For those too young to recall this odd treat, Ludwig was some sort of admixture of an alien, Inspector Gadget, Loki and a classical music-loving egg who arrives unannounced in a forest and disrupts the life of its inhabitants.
It was only last week that we lost Jacqueline Pearce who played Servalan and Blake’s 7 and made such an impression on my pre-teen years. Looking back, she was an extraordinarily strong female character for late 70s science fiction and rocked a rather unconventional look for the BBC of that era. I can’t help wondering if she bears some (perhaps quite a lot of) responsibility for whatever feminist credentials I actually possess as she was an early example of a powerful woman (Supreme Commander of the Terran Federation, no less) with her own style – and it would be a very brave (and probably short-lived) character who would criticise her for it.
The deaths of these famous folk, many of whom are forever young in my memories, has helped to highlight the temporal distance from my childhood. The feeling of having lived too long (in some ways only – no-one needs to stage an intervention or keep me away from sharp objects) has also been occurring more frequently of late. I often find myself in front of the bathroom mirror of a morning thinking, “What, again?!”. I think this is mostly down to the repetitions of life, and especially the need to constantly service the meat puppet which I have still failed to transcend. I mean you feed it or shave it or wash it (or whatever) for the nth time (for large n) knowing full well that you’ll just have to do it again in a few hours/days. By 52, there are certain activities that one has done too often to the same fleshy envelope and I find myself wanting some novelty. Sadly, the technology does not exist for a full body transplant and I think I’m too old – and lack the inclination (and the wardrobe) – to transition to another gender. I suppose I could get a tattoo or a piercing – but I am as inconstant as the wind and don’t really trust myself to want to keep the same image/text/hole into the medium (let alone the longer) term: I suppose I could have it somewhere I can’t see but that might rather defeat the purpose.
As well as the “What, again?!” moments during my brief, daily, dalliance with a reflecting surface there are also the “Not you again!” moments. When I was young, I was more than happy with my own company – I guess my novelty value had yet to wear off – and while I had friends at school never really interacted with them outside the school grounds. In many ways, this broad approach to life continued to my mid twenties and the introduction of alcohol into my life and, more significantly, my bloodstream. I would then go to the pub with friends, have people over for dinner and occasionally cultural activities would be introduced. This was broadly how my life continued into my forties, enjoying having a social life with friends but otherwise living a solitary life with cultural activities generally enjoyed alone. If I spent a whole weekend with other people, I would have fun but be glad to return to my own space and company: though for a brief period would miss the stimulation other people provided.
At some stage, while living in Cambridge, I started going much more regularly to events (mostly classical music concerts and comedy gigs) at a small number of venues – something which started by accident when I went to see a friend of my parents whose orchestra was playing in town. I enjoyed myself and the West Road concert hall became a regular haunt. This meant that I tended to encounter the same people on multiple occasions and so got to know them. However, it is since being in Southampton that this process has really taken off. I can now have dozens of friends I see regularly around the city and can rarely leave the house without bumping into someone I know. It is a lovely thing to be able to go out and expect (without planning anything) to meet friends: though it does rather eat into my reading time.
I think that my friends are becoming a much more important part of my life. It is not entirely clear why, perhaps I am finally maturing emotionally? It is not impossible as, relatively recently, after reading still falling by Sara Hirsch, I started to understand why people might want to enter into a relationship with another human: better late than never, eh? I think I may have said this before, but think carefully before you read poetry: you never know how it might change you!
However, my preferred theory is that I am now bored of myself – I have lived with, what is conventionally thought of as, the same person for more than 52 years and the honeymoon period is definitely over. I now find myself dreading having to spend a whole day – or worse evening – with only myself for company. It’s fine if I have work or something else constructive (or which I deem constructive – which is not the same thing at all!) to do, but if I am free of responsibilities the prospect of being stuck with myself is not as appealling as once it was (more appalling). Could this be an explanation for GofaDM? Is it all a terrible attempt to escape my own company by inflicting it on the unsuspecting internet? Does the fact that in recent months I have had loads of human contact, including more hugs on some days than the preceding four decades had delivered in total (I assume my childhood was hug-rich, but sadly cannot remember whether this is the case at all), mean that I had less need for this blog and explain my recent neglect?
Having said that I fill myself with a feeling of ennui, current me is way more interesting and entertaining company than past mes. I really wouldn’t want to be stuck in a room with teenage or early twenties me – in fact, in many ways I’m not convinced that we are the same person at all. Just because I share some faded and distorted versions of his memories, his genotype and a decayed version of his phenotype does not mean we are the same person. This does lead to the thought that “future me” will disavow “current me”: though will be stuck with a lot of written proof of his existence. I suppose everything is transient (though no-one has yet seen a proton or electron fall apart – so far as I know) and we should try and enjoy it, and the self doing the enjoying, while it lasts – and not worry overly much about the judgments that will be made by our future selves (they will always lack a certain perspective).
Glimpses of a disturbed mind 