In one of the last conversations I had with my father he talked about his boyhood – he rarely had done so until very late in his life. He talked about his mother, who had died in her early fifties, his brother who he had never really got on with very well and finally Bingo his dog. At the time, I thought it slightly strange, since he rarely talked about small, intimate memories. But Bingo the dog who bit everyone it could except my father seemed, even at the time, to be a much more private memory than most. So almost my final image of my father was of a young boy and fierce dog.
After his death I found a very old, brown envelope and in it some very faded photographs of a boy and a Jack Russell – my father and Bingo.