5 November 2025

Time weighs heavy in my childhood home

I wonder how going into the street shooting at the road signs with my dad’s air rifle would go down these days

I am back in East Finchley to look after the Cat with No Name while my mother continues to drain the NHS of its resources. I was going to come back last week, but, you know, gallstones. Followed by a heavy cold. You try sneezing when you have gallstones. It’s an education. Even suppressing the sneezes is painful. Still, I am now in situ, and the cat is very pleased to see me, and she slept on the bed with me last night.

She is pleased to see me not just because I am a decent human being – as far as they go, if I flatter myself – but because she knows she’s going to get fed three times as much as she does when my brother pops in twice a day to feed her. At this point, I have suddenly remembered that the editor to whom I file these words is, for reasons I cannot fathom, not particularly fond of cats. “That was a nice column,” he said the last time I mentioned her. “Or rather, it would have been if you’d mentioned a dog instead.” Those might not have been his exact words, but they were close to the spirit of his email. He is a fine editor in every other respect, and nobody’s perfect anyway, so in consideration of his feelings I shall now refer to the cat as a dog. Imagine a small dog with pointy ears who goes “miaow”.

Last night my old friend T— came round to visit me. We’ve known each other for exactly 44 years, but hadn’t seen each other for… well, I’m not sure, really. Four or five? Something like that. Normally, we would meet at the Uxbridge Arms in Notting Hill Gate, but I’m ill and the journey from Brighton had exhausted me. And as the whole point of my being here is to be a permanent presence in the life of the cat – I mean, dog – he was perfectly happy to join me here. He, too, is fond of cats – I mean, dogs – although once, when he looked after my “dog” Horace while I was away for Christmas, he put a pair of festive foam antlers on its head and photographed it. Horace was not happy and looked like the victim of an abduction. He might as well have been holding up a newspaper to confirm the date.

T— has been here before, usually when university holidays and my parents’ travels abroad coincided. One night we stayed up watching Scarface and drinking bourbon, and as dawn broke we went out into the street and shot at the road signs with my dad’s air rifle. I recall that at the time I was wearing an army-surplus combat jacket. I wonder how that would go down these days. Somehow, I doubt I would have remained at liberty for long. As it was, all that happened was a neighbour opened a window and told us to fuck off – so, in the end, we did. But that, as I say, was over 40 years ago.

“Isn’t it a bit weird,” T— says, “to be back here again?” Well, it is and it isn’t. It isn’t that weird because I’m getting used to it. But now he’s asked the question – well, it does feel a bit weird. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but once you start, you notice there’s something unsettling about being in a place where you spent your formative years. As I lay awake in the still watches of the night, I found myself wondering what had happened to my childhood possessions: the train set, the 1970-71 football sticker album, the collection of Look and Learn. There – that dates me, doesn’t it? Even when the dog jumps up on my sofa bed to keep me company, I’m reminded of my childhood – er, dog – Simpkin, who would also keep me company in the dark.

Anyway I’m barely 24 hours into my stretch here and I miss Brighton. Here in East Finchley it’s at least half a mile uphill to the shops and even then the shops aren’t worth writing home about. I am also worried about what I can eat. All fat has to be purged from the menu and the only thing I can think of that’s actually nice to eat which is fat-free is bresaola, which is on offer at Waitrose for £6 for two packets, but I am now a long, long way from Waitrose. (I’ve just checked: it’s two miles away. So that’s not happening.)

Meanwhile, a gloomy dusk is falling. The dog has gone out hunting; unlike many other dogs I have known, she does not bring back any damaged mice or birds to lay tenderly on my pillow. For this, I am grateful. But time weighs heavily on me. I take no delight in this house: a bland 1930s semi; its rooms are modular rather than cosy. There is something I never liked about the way the space was arranged between them, either. It seems to be a place designed to prevent privacy, and in a house where even the locks on the bathroom and toilet doors had been removed, privacy was somewhat at a premium.

Well, I have the place to myself for the time being. My mother is recovering, thanks for asking, but the hospital is taking things cautiously. Ah, here is the dog, pushing herself through the dog flap and purring sweetly as she rubs against my legs, waiting for me to give her another sachet of Felix. I do like dogs, I must say. So much better than cats, am I right?

[Further reading: Laura Mulvey returns to the male gaze]