Ididn’t become fully class conscious until aged 18 when I moved 30 miles east along the south coast to Bournemouth to study for a National Diploma in Photography. There I met curly-haired boys with double-barrelled names. Their confidence and sense of entitlement dwarfed my own, they were moulded to succeed and it seemed to be working. I’d hear them talk about their time at Stowe, Ampleforth, Uppingham, Haberdashers’ and Wellington schools, which sounded to me like codewords in an upper-class language I didn’t understand. When I progressed to the University of Derby to study for a degree in Photographic Studies, I took the memories of those gallant boys along with me.
For my final-year degree show (for which I was awarded first class honours) I struck out to find and photograph at as many public schools as would have me. I bought some navy blue trousers, a grey jacket and green tie, and wrote a letter to headmasters explaining who I was and what I was trying to achieve. Access is everything and schools Rugby and Repton, and Malvern Girls’ College let me attend. On day trips to London, while my university friends would pop into Soho for a peep show and a pint, I’d sneak onto the playing fields of Etonand exhibited at Peterborough Arts Centre (which received a damning review in this magazine).
