Tuesday
Sep122006

Part of a life

I found my birth mother this year.  I tried to explain to her, as best I could what I've been doing these last 43 years. I made a book of pictures, part of which you see here. I've removed the captions, which makes it a little puzzling, not unlike my life.

I will write the whole experience up in detail soon, in case it helps others. The BBC show and book has rekindled alot of peoples interest in finding lost relatives. Why did I look after 43 years? After all my childhood was a cosy glow of memories. I'd always known I was adopted, But a row with the Fish late one night added one vital extra bit of information that meant fate suddenly swung into action.

  1. Discussing my many roles/options/blind alleys at work, I cried 'but I don't know who I am' -The Fish replied, 'but your Andrew Fairbank!' cue comedy bolt from the blue moment. drunk or not, finding you have two identities is somewhat sobering. (43 years as Philip Slade meant I was rather partial to my name) My mum had told her shortly after we were married that I had another name - this something I was convinced she'd never told me!
  2. Fish and a mate ( simon@skeletonsearch.com ) go searching in births and deaths.
  3. She  finds my 'other' birth certificate, Christopher Andrew Fairbank, Scarborough, 06/03/1963 almost identical to the other one I've got for Philip John Slade, Scarborough. 06/03/1963 
  4. They find the family Fairbank through many generations, most turn out to be artists
  5. Fish pulls a masterstroke and employs a private detective called Morse!
  6. I arrive in Scarborough for the first time in 43 years to be greeted by my (other) mother. Discover I have a younger brother and sister, two uncles and a whole bunch of cousins.
    jasonphilipemma_1.jpg john_philip_jill_andrew.jpg
Monday
Sep112006

Cycling in the Thames

A charming cycle ride from Putney to Richmond Road route shown here, Only we followed the river edge via the tow path, made all the  more fun by an incredible high tide.

There is humour watching the Sunday walkers navigate baby buggies, cars and picnics around an ever rising river Thames. The thing is being so cliché English, no one ran, shouted or caused a fuss, just carefully and at normal walking pace picked there way over both the rising flood and all the rubbish flowing with it.

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