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Love of Camera

I don’t recollect much from that day, although it must have been around summer 1971 given I was roughly ten years old. Scarborough was one of those cheap and accessible holiday destinations for working-class families from the North-East. The battleships of Peasmole Park, getting drenched at high tide or my refusal to entertain the infamous cable car ride it was a destination of so many happy childhood memories. I do recall my dad calling me over and giving me a quick demonstration on home to use his small Kodak Camera. ‘I want to to take a photo of me and your mum, son. When I say not just press the button, but make sure you can see both of us.”

I stood ready and awaited the signal. My parents assembled, my dad leaning against the wall and mum stood next to him. They looked like tin rabbits waiting to be shot in one of those penny arcades we often visited during the evening. “not yet, son” came my dad’s instruction. He took my mum by the hand and guided her in front of him, she fell back, and he then wrapped his arms around her. “Now,” my dad said.

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