Snapshot: My girls laughing on the Champs Elysées
They say the camera never lies. This photograph, taken of my two girls Poppy, right, and Sophie, left, in 2003, before the worry of “let me check that before it goes on Facebook” certainly backs that up.
We were on our first holiday abroad following my divorce. I had taken them to Paris for an autumn half-term break and this was the last night of the holiday. It was stress-free – we just took hand luggage for a week (which would never happen again with teenage girls) and stayed at a small, comfortable hotel within walking distance of most tourist sites.
We decided to have dinner out on the Champs Elysées. Earlier in the day, we had been at the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. Outside we thought we would get a photo of the three of us together so I began to look for someone who would a) take the photo b) speak English and c) not run off with my camera. It was in the days before selfies.
I approached a woman who was happy to oblige and we grouped together with the Louvre in the background. For some reason, the girls found all this very funny; I imagine they were laughing at me for thinking that someone would run off with my camera. Anyway, they couldn’t stop laughing and the lady began to get quite cross. She told them to compose themselves or she wouldn’t take the photo. Not the thing to say to two girls who already have the giggles. It was quite extraordinary. We were having such fun, so surely having them laughing was a bonus. She spoke to them a couple of times, and the photo was taken.
This is not the picture that the strict French Madame took. This was taken at dinner that night. I wanted a photograph of the girls in the restaurant and we were reminiscing about the Frenchwoman and the girls began to giggle all over again. We began to joke about it and suddenly they laughed outrageously at the thought of some stranger reprimanding them about laughing during the taking of a quick holiday snap. Luckily, I snapped the moment and captured two very natural, happy, gorgeous faces.
It remains one of my favourite photos despite many more happy snaps of my girls who grew up to be even more gorgeous (I would say that, I know), smiling, independent women. It always brings back such happy memories of a wonderful holiday and I hope it gave them a taste for the travelling that they love to do now. Sophie returned last year from a year in Australia and Poppy is off for a year’s travelling this autumn. Keep smiling, girls, you make me so proud.
Naomi Duffree
Playlist: Jenny, who taught me so much about life
Ginny Come Lately by Brian Hyland
“You only had to smile a little smile / do nothing more than look at me / you only had to smile and in a little while / I was dreaming recklessly”
In the summer of 1962, I was 16 and the sun shone as it always does on our teenage memories. On holiday in Downderry, Cornwall, at a hotel ideal for families each year mums and dads met up and we kids met up with old friends and new ones were made. But 1962 was special because I fell in love for the first time – her name was Jenny – and this song played on my old tranny along with many others – Radio Luxembourg of course.
Walking miles and miles over the cliffs, holding hands and talking like young lovers do, creeping out of the hotel at night for a late-night smooch, sharing illicit drinks and (it was the early 60s and anything more was still beyond my ken) then climbing back and into our own beds. Because I did not realise what this amazing feeling was – it wasn’t the sort of thing you asked mum and dad back then – it was later that I realised what she had given me, the knowledge that there is something wonderful out there that people wrote pop songs about.
Summer holidays come to an end but we wrote – she always signed “best love” – then in 1965 I saw her engagement announcement in the Telegraph. One last thing she taught me – to be happy for someone else.
Sometime in 1966, I heard this song on the radio and I burst into tears: it took me only a few moments to realise where it had taken me. Later, I managed to get a copy – scratched vinyl, 45rpm, now transferred to CD. I still have happy memories when I hear it – but not the sort that make you wish for something that could never be – just a reminder of what I learned 50-plus years ago.
Peter B
We love to eat: Mum’s Sunday dinner
Ingredients
1 chicken
2 tins of carrots
2 tins of peas
8 potatoes
1 cabbage
Gravy
I don’t know whether it was the ghastly smell or just the look of those plastic-like, mini carrots, but Mum’s Sunday dinner was something that I would always dread.
While my dad, probably ravenous from a day of brick laying, politely ate everything on his plate, my brother and I waited, biding our time. Eventually, our parents would leave the table to wash the dishes, leaving us to finish our dinner. One of us would prepare to make the dash; filling our pockets with the remaining vegetables before rushing to the bathroom to dispose of the leftovers. It turned out that we weren’t so clever because much later my mother told me that she always knew. Perhaps that’s what prompted her to improve her cooking.
Somewhere down the line, family and home life became less important. I left home, my brother went to work full time and my parents got divorced. Unintentionally, life got too busy and for a short time we were very distant from each other, wrapped up in our individual lives. For a while we forgot the value of family. Now I realise that we were actually taking each other for granted.
Thankfully, time really is a healer and all the stress of divorce and the changes in our family settled and became normal. Nowadays, we make much more effort to be together, simply because we want to be. Once a week we flock to my mother’s with our partners, pull up any extra chairs we can find to cater for the extended family, including the office swivel chair and Mum’s makeup stool. We all sit together and although the food may not be perfect, it’s much better than it used to be and spending quality time together is undeniably just right.
Zoe Ashbridge
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