Long before I became the pot-bellied, bespectacled, grey-haired sex symbol that you know today, I struggled through life as a flat-stomached, dark-haired, cleared-eyed idealist in flared trousers. Hard to believe I know, but whilst rummaging through a box of old photos at my Mum’s house yesterday, I came across the hard evidence.

The original distress flares. Well, they’re causing me distress now

Exhibit A shows me as I appeared to the world on my last day as a teenager. The photo is dated 12 December 1976, and was taken outside Eastbourne Library. The following day I was to start my twenties as a newly recruited police officer up in that there London. The trousers lasted longer than my choice of career, although the haircut was gone the following day.

As I delve deeper into the cardboard box of mainly black and white prints, more images of my former self emerge, together with pictures of my family from as far back as the 1920s. I am struck by how much I resembled my Dad (who passed away in 1980). Exhibit B…

Me on the left. I wasn’t around in 1937

It seems I’ve never been afraid of posing for the camera. In the next two pictures I can definitely see elements of Drama Queen bubbling below the surface. But I realise that the best bit of looking through someone’s family photo albums – for that is what you are doing here, dear reader – is being able to laugh at the ridiculousness of the people in the frame. So….

I have no idea. So please don’t ask.

That was taken in the back garden of 166 Brodrick Road. The fields in the background have of course now all gone. To some it was a farm. To us, a playground.

Wait! Is that…Julie Andrews?

It looks like I auditioned for the Sound of Music much earlier than I thought. But that’s the Sussex Downs, which, while it was a scene of many a happy Sunday out with Mum and Dad during my childhood, it’s not the Alps.

Wait! Is that…James Bond!?

The last one – and believe me, there are hundreds to choose from, but I don’t want to go on too much, is of me in Damascus in 1985. I was working at the British Embassy there at the time. We must’ve been told to scrub up for a reception somewhere, hence the dickie bow. I was quite the Man-about-Town in those days, although I was probably going to the Nigerian Embassy (or somewhere similar) rather than to a swinging’ hot spot.

That’s all for now. Thanks for reading, if you’ve got this far. And remember, these events only happened to me. So don’t have nightmares …