I’ve always been a very visual person. I’ll watch a film, pausing ever so often to take in a moment, staring wondrously at what’s stirred the emotions.
I think it’s a talent that I’ve accumulated through my childhood, a dramatic event would happen, it would be ignored by my parents and I was left to ponder. Creating my own narrative, letting the anxiety build until a tic or some mild form of OCD would appear. “Stop that Nicky, why are you clicking your neck” my Mum would say. I was reliving the moment my Dad drove his car though the neighbours living room in a drunken mess escaping the police. The click was me suppressing the fear, it was my trigger.
In the early years my Dad started out as a builder. Things where simple, holidays where plenty and so was the laughter. In the mid 80s my Dad lost his business in a freak incident and had to declare himself bankrupt, post a recent purchase of a dream home he could no longer afford. Maggie Thatcher’s reign had taken hold, the economy was weak and so was my Dad’s judgement. He turned to crime and crime turned him into a drug addict who would one day call his son and ask me to prevent him from committing suicide.
Nicky Hamilton
