What Are You Doing Here?

The biggest chunk of the twenty-five minutes of airtime [for Play School] was taken up by the story. This was always introduced by the clock. A model under the clock would give the audience a little hint of what the story would be about. But first, we looked at the time.

‘Where’s the long hand pointing? It’s something o’clock. Where’s the short hand? Today it’s pointing to the number . . . four. Today the clock says four o’clock.’

The clock was once the cause of a terrible kerfuffle when it stopped working and one of the prop team tried to fix it, and the electricians went wild. They immediately called for an all-out strike. The unions were incredibly strict in the 1970s, and without electricians, we couldn’t record the programme. The producers were all set to put out a repeat.

All was finally resolved, and the show went on.

Once we’d told the time, always giving the child plenty of time to guess, and to glow with a sense of achievement if they got it right, then a tiny model on the clock base, which was a clue to the story, would spin round to music. And the presenter would sit in the story chair. This was my favourite part.

All the new possibilities in broadcasting were exciting developments in many ways, but I felt that they weren’t necessarily good for children. Quality was deteriorating as everyone tried to get in on the act. Many parents were beginning to use televisions like babysitters, so I tried to use my influence when speaking in public to persuade mothers, fathers and carers not to let their children gawp unsupervised, hour after hour. As I pointed out, it was the television equivalent of eating an endless diet of burgers, Coke and chips, and just as bad for children’s bodies and minds. I made it my mission to discourage televisions in children’s bedrooms, as well as violent video games, which were prevalent at the time, and I always stressed the importance of the ‘off’ button. Now, we’ve got the internet.

My son pretended to be outraged when I was awarded an honorary degree from his very own university. The letter arrived out of the blue in 2005, two years after Aston had graduated from Exeter University and when he’d nearly finished at BPP Law School. Alvina was about to do her GSCEs, and was also competing – and winning – in national athletics competitions, excelling in the high jump. She was a keen drummer too, and had recently proved herself a chip off the old block’, according to her grandfather, who’d been very impressed by her performance in a school production of Bugsy Malone. She’d certainly achieved one thing I never had: she’d tempted Dardie to go and see her live on stage.

‘How about this, Aston!’ I said proudly, showing him my invitation to the degree ceremony.

‘I spent three years working hard for my degree and you just waltz in . . . !’ he said.

‘Listen, son,’ I replied, laughing. ‘I may have left school at sixteen but I’ve been to the university of life and studied empathy and common sense.’