The awkward moment of the sand car.

The day we found my dad's porn, we had Phillip Moleford round to play.

Phillip was an only child with a lisp and a lazy eye; my best friend at that time. He could have been an extra from one of The Famous Five books with his blond barnet and love for train sets and tree houses (the lazy eye would probably have held him back from snatching any of the lead roles). He was one of those children who was a bit wimpy and would often get stuck in a tree or hung by a rope. Phillip was better off on the ground; pushing little cars around the dusty trails formed by protruding tree roots.

Throughout my life, I've always had a constant supply of best friends like Phillip Moleford. The wimps, the outcasts, the one's with impedemants, the pasty or the ginger. All these characters, whether at school or later in life, are all interesting to me. They're not the one-sided personalities like many of the sporty or popular kids were at school. Instead my side kicks have always been quirky, imaginative and absolutely loyal introverts. Qualities I still find dependable to this day. Perhaps I also like the fact of having a reliable sidekick. Someone I can lead, someone who admires me, and someone I can trust not to be judgemental and to simply enjoy the ride, someone who's wonky eye distracts from my own defects.

At school, I'd very often be friends with kids who were either bullied or not that popular. It wasn't that I was either of these two things, but I've just always been drawn characters in some kind of need. One of the first virtues I can remember possessing was that of compassion. I knew I had it very early in life and understood the simplicity of feeling for another living thing. There's a dog-eared family photo, taken even before my brother was born, which frames the first time I felt the mega human emotion of compassion. I was probably around three years old.

My parents had taken me to Italy, whilst holidaying with another family of equal number. The other family left us for a day, so the three of us went to the beach. One of us had found three quarters of a white toy steering wheel, so out of sand, my dad built me a racing car to go with it.

They sat me down and with a plastic spade padded me in. Once the broken steering wheel was applied, I was ready for my picture. People back then treated the conception of a picture with saintly decorum; unlike today where we shoot digital shots like a free for all a fair ground firing range. If someone wanted to take your picture it was by way of a sweet compliment. It was like, 'Right, I've only got twenty four of these, but I'd like you to be in one of them so stand over there next to that swan'. Far removed from the digital dynamic we live in today, where I happily take random photos of my feet with my phone. Back in the old days, a photo of your feet was undoubtedly a mistake, not a contemporary masterpiece.

In those days every space on the film was like reserved seating for a particular moment of family gold. That said, some of the coveted gold seats displayed in my family's photo albums are filled with some big, fat, pointless bums of castles and cloudy views of cow fields.

As I sat there in my sand car, my parents looked so happy with the moment they'd created and about to picture. A lovely family day on an Italian beach, a moment well worth a golden seat in their camera. But I wasn't feeling it. In truth, I was a bit bored at no longer having another three year old playmate to hang with. I felt lonely and wasn't all that excited by the car my dad was obviously so proud of.

I could see how happy they were and how hard they were trying to amuse me. In the photo, you can see me smiling and holding the steering wheel like I'm about to take off at lights, but in my head I was thinking, "God this steering wheel is pitiful and the sand is starting to chafe". I just didn't want to spoil their moment, plus I could see all the hard work that had gone into the car, so I faked delight and everybody believed me.