This wonderful, creative strip of pics was sent to me from London in 1991 as a birthday present from my South American travelling companion, Helen. It is one of my all-time favourite pressies.
She is pictured in both these booth photos with her boyfriend of the time, David.
Aunty Cecilie
Part of my passion for travelling came about at least in part through the fact that my mum’s sister, Cecilie, had moved to New Zealand soon after I was born. She and her husband Gregor made regular visits to Melbourne with my cousin Kristine and later with her younger sister Rachel. I was always incredibly excited that they were coming and immensely envious of their “jet-set” lifestyle, for we never flew anywhere. The free toys my cousins received in-flight were better than anything they might have brought us for presents, their stories of what happened during a flight more riveting than any others and airports were the most exotic of locations, even if you were not the one who got to go on a plane.
During one of their visits to Australia, when I was approaching the age of 15, I remember moaning on to my uncle about the fact we never went to visit them in Hamilton. He was totally unsympathetic. Why should I feel that I needed to wait until my parents had the money to bring the whole family along? He said I should come on my own. Initially I thought he was mad or joking, as I protested that my pocket-money, even if diligently saved wouldn’t be sufficient to get me there until the next century, which was then 23 years away. “Well get a job” he said,”You save up enough for the airfare and we will look after the rest”.
So I did. Three months before I turned 15 I got a weekend job at The Bake-Inn Hot Bread Kitchen in Bentleigh and just days after my 16th birthday, I took all the money I had saved, bought a ticket and flew to New Zealand. Mum and Dad gave me enough to top up my spending money to $100.00 for a one month tour of the North Island with the rellies. I still have my best souvenir, a stuffed toy kiwi made out of possum skin, that was named Rewi by Krissie.
I have lost count of how many times I have since visited Cecilie in New Zealand, my Uncle Gregor now, sadly, deceased. She always encourages me to return and is a very generous and inexhaustible host, always taking me on an adventure to places I’ve not visited previously. We once also met up in the UK to be tourists together and a very happy pair we made, too.
Like my mother and both my grandparents on her side, Cecilie has been a professional musician all her life, having trained as a pianist from her earliest years. She has a wonderfully optimistic outlook which is helped along by another very important passion in her life, which she shares with me and my mum. She is a madly dedicated, dog lover. Having recently bid farewell to one of her much-loved rescue-pooches, Mia, she last week welcomed Ellie the kelpie-cross into her life. It is my dedicated intention to get her and her new baby into a photobooth one day, my Snowy-Dawg having suffered the experience only recently. One has to admit it is not a dog’s favourite of pass-times.
This is an undated Polaroid booth pic taken several years ago, presumably in Hamilton, New Zealand.
Being completely exhausted from days of working on yesterday’s post, my longest one so far, I have decided to take it easy today and just show you more of my favourite old booth pics.
These two intrigue me. They were listed under the title Unfortunate Sisters when I bought them online. As you can see they are both wearing the same outfits down to identical lacy shirts. From the writing on the back, one would assume that we have pictures of Elizabeth and Mary Carmen, twin sisters, each one having dedicated their portrait to the other. But why are the dedications both in the same hand writing? Are they alike enough to even be non-identical twins? What of the large and masculine hand of Elizabeth? Both of their jaws are manly, broad and firmly set, not to mention their strong noses. Look at Elizabeth’s picture more closely (if your click on it you will get a larger version), do you think that her skin texture is a tad coarse?
I am not convinced they are women at all. The hair looks genuine enough. That is what most mystifies me about this unusual pair. What do you think?
June 1994, Zeebrugge
One of the things that was overlooked by my French employers, was the fact that I had no legal right to be working in France. At the interview, I had told them that I did not have a work permit. They were not at all bothered by the admission. Things changed when I needed a new tourist visa. The first step, of what turned out to be quite a saga, was a trip to Brussels to get my documents updated. There, I was informed that I had to go back to the country where the first paperwork had been issued, that being England. As I had only taken a day trip to Brussels and was expected back for work in Paris, I made no further plans and returned there that afternoon.
Things were starting to get complicated. I could not risk going through a French port to get back to London, as my passport had been dated on my way in. It was already over my officially allowed limit of one month. I had never before received an immigration stamp at a ferry terminal. The visa itself was valid for three months, so receiving a stamp on entry, was bad luck.
I had been planning a weekend in London to visit Del and Lindsey for a special event, so decided to combine that with the subterfuge I had in mind. I would enter Belgium again and by leaving from the port at Zeebrugge, would avoid any questions about how long I had been in France. When travelling by train between France and Belgium, passports were rarely checked, so that seemed safe. From there a quick skip to Britain to see my friends and get my new visa would be easy. All went to plan and I had a pleasant night crossing on the ferry to Felixstowe.
I had never before entered England from north of London, so I was surprised at how quiet the port was. There were only two people on duty at immigration and one of them was in a foul mood. I was one of several passengers who were unfortunate enough to be asked forward by Mr Grumpy. After having witnessed tense interviews with some of the others in the queue, I was asked brusquely to stand aside to join a growing number of, presumably, suspect individuals. I don’t know what happened to the other ‘detainees’ but I was shipped off to an interview room where I was left alone for some time. Eventually the same man who had sent me there, began a grilling that went on for most of the morning. He wanted to know all about my finances, my intentions and my relationships with people in the UK.
My tormentor went through everything, including my purse, bank deposit book, clothes, wash-bag, diary and address book. The interrogation proper began. Who is this person and that person? Why do you call her your sister (Rosie) if she isn’t? Why is she called Grandma (Holbrook) in this entry if she isn’t your grandmother? Who are you going to meet? Why? How do you know them? How long are you staying? How are you supporting yourself on your travels if you have no savings? Why should we believe you that you are entering for a weekend, if you have already worked illegally in another country? Well that was the clincher. He didn’t ask if I had been working in France. He told me I was. All the evidence was there, though unbeknownst to me. Eventually I confessed the whole story hoping that he would believe the truth – I did not want to work in the UK. Unfortunately, he didn’t and I was shipped back on the next ferry to Zeebrugge. I wasn’t even allowed a phone call to tell Del and Linds what was happening. I thought you always got one phone call in these situations? Damn those Hollywood movies!
With instructions for it not to be returned until I had had an interview with the officer in charge, my passport was handed to the ferry’s Purser. I was ushered into a cabin. The Captain sat at his desk with three other imposing, uniformed men standing around him. I was traumatised and terrified. To my relief however, he was extraordinarily kind. To the guffaws of his crew members, he suggested that my being tossed out was the result of the immigration official not getting any satisfaction from his wife the night before. He said he was astonished that an Australian had been turned away, as he had never known it to happen on so “flimsy a reason”. I was given my passport, which had a nasty black stamp emblazoned on one page, multiple vouchers for free food and drink and a free pass to see all of the movies that were being shown in the ferry’s cinema. I sobbed my way through Sleepless in Seattle, amongst other films, of which I now have no memory.
Some confusion and concern was created by my arrival back in Paris, two days early. This very soon resulted in my being told my situation was too risky to the family for my employment to continue. Thus I found myself serving notice, wondering what my next step should be.
This none too flattering picture was taken at the train station on my return to Zeebrugge on the 9th June, the day of my disgrace.
I met Daphne in my time as a student at the Université de Savoie. Like me she was there to learn French. As an historian of seventeenth century French history, Daphne had a firm purpose in needing to understand the language better and was a dedicated student.
I believe we became firm friends the first day we met. She is a feisty and passionate woman who knows how to spin a great yarn, and that she frequently did on our regular walks together, through the countryside that surrounds the medieval, alpine town of Annecy.
One walk, coming out of a wooded copse into open farmland, something about an empty old Victorian bathtub, that had been left in a field for watering the cows, prompted a funny story from Daphne. The tale resulted in me taking off most of my clothes, leaping into the tub and posing for pictures as though I was having a bath. It having been the middle of an icy, northern hemisphere, mountain winter, my nude bath scene cost me no small measure of discomfort and goosebumps. Daphne assures me she has the photos somewhere but to this day I have never seen them. I am wondering if I still want to.
We have shared other adventures together such as a visit to Paris where we met up with Georges to visit the Musée Rodin, a touristy day out in Toronto with a lunch at the Royal Canadian Yacht Club and fine dining in Montreal that resulted in food poisoning for her mum and I.
This fun and varied photo strip of Daphne was taken somewhere in France in March 1994 as a (very special) present for me.
May 1994, Paris
Alex was my charge for three months whilst working as a nanny in Paris. He was a happy, intelligent child who loved to get in there, help and do. Like many boys of 18 months, he loved motorcycles and any type of shiny, large, noisy vehicle. Once aware of his passion, I would get him out of his buggy and let him sit on one or more of the parked motorcycles we regularly passed on our frequent walks to the Eiffel Tower park. I often wondered if he gave his mum hell, after I left, trying to get her to do the same.
We were once stopped by a group of tourists who asked for me to put Alex on a particularly cool and powerful looking bike. He then posed outrageously while they took multiple snaps. Unfortunately I had no camera of my own to capture his extremely cute mugging.
This photo of Alex and me was taken on 31 May at one of Paris’s many metro stations.
My relationship with Cherie is an unusual one. I don’t know her and I didn’t find her photos online or in a junk shop. In 1997, I wrote to New Idea Magazine about my photobooth collection and plans for an exhibition, which unfortunately never eventuated. I asked if any of their readers would like to contribute pictures. I received two replies, Cherie’s being one of them. She wrote a short note saying “I hope these help you out… please send a photo of the finished project”. I replied to say thank you, as she had included her return address in Walloon, Queensland, but as the project didn’t happen, I never contacted her again.
So after 14 years, these are Cherie’s pictures. It was too much to hope that anyone with her name was still living at the address I have, but there are a few others with the same surname living elsewhere in Queensland. Now the hunt begins to find her and tell her what happened to her cool pics. Wish me luck!
April 1994, Neufchâtel, France
Today I am wallowing in the joy of having yesterday received a most wonderful and extraordinary gift from the now grown up little girl in this picture. Rosie was married to her Mr (W)Right earlier this year. They have sent me, from the UK, a supremely polished, high-quality, printed and personalised book of their wedding photos. I was immensely disappointed not to have been able to attend the celebrations due to my illness, so was exceptionally chuffed to receive such a fine gift.
In a very twenty-first century move, they have both changed their surnames into a lovely amalgamation of their two original patronymics. Mr B. Wright and Ms R. Holbrook are now Mr and Mrs Holbright. Having been a long, long time ago, adopted by Rosie and re-christened Kitty Griffbrook, I now, too, will be changing my name, however Griffright (Rosie’s choice)to me has not quite the ring to it as Griffbright. (My suggestion). With my tangled mass of unruly hair having “fright” as part of my unofficial name is daunting to say the least, but I will by necessity, go with Rosie’s final decision!
This photo of me, Ros and her brother, Rich (Roo) was taken at a booth at a Leclerc supermarket in Neufchâtel on the 30 of April 1994. I was invited to stay at Del’s cottage in Normandy, on my way to Paris, before starting my nannying job. Also in our party with Del, Rosie, Roo and I, were Del’s delightful neighbours Val and her daughter Ella, with whom it is impossible not to have a great laugh. I regret that I didn’t get the two of them into a booth that day, too.
This is Lindsey. As mentioned in my post Della Time Machine Linds is the hospitable hubby of the Holbrook household. For many years, he was pretty much the only man in a house full of kids and manic foreign women. Taking in boarders was Del’s thing and Linds went patiently along for the ride, come what may. There was the occasional male boarder, warmly embraced by him, as a slight antidote to the mayhem of the overwhelming majority of female guests. Like Del, he was generous and welcoming to all. He was and still is a humorous, patient Dad and an affectionate friend.
Looking at these photos I find it fun to see the strong resemblance between him and his son, Rich, who is now about the same age as Linds would be in the first photo. I am not sure if he knows I have these booth pics of him. They arrived one day in the post from London, as a delightful surprise present from Del along with other family photobooth pics.
My Grandma Parkes was everything a grandmother should be. She was kind, a patient teacher (I learned numerous crafts from her), cuddly and a great cake baker. She was a professional musician all her life, working as piano accompanist to my grandfather Cecil, who played the violin. I was very fortunate to have been able to spend one night a week with both my grandparents for the whole of my final year at Loreto, Mandeville Hall. Ceramics was not offered there at that time, so I went each Wednesday night to classes at Hawksburn, a short walk from Grandma and Grandpa’s home. We invariably had chops and boiled veggies for dinner. I loved it!
This photo of May Parkes (née Broderick) was taken in the late 1980s for a passport for a trip to New Zealand. I wish she had stepped into a photobooth more frequently as I’d love to have one or two booth pics of her as a young woman. She was a most attractive lady in her heyday.
Photobooth Journal 