Dad lived in the tiny little western Victorian town of Newbridge. It was a hell of a long way from England where he grew up.

As you drove to his place you passed through quintessentially rural Australia. Infinite, parched, flat fields, broken down wind-mills, thirsty sheep and the occasional dead roo roadside.

You stepped into his house, full of dusty old books and antiques, with a Dalmatian instead of a Blue Heeler and you felt like you'd somehow been teleported to a remote cottage in the English moors. But with a tin roof.

If you timed it right, the ticking clocks would all chime when you arrived and Daisy would go nuts. Then John would start shouting at the dog, 'Oh, bloody hell! Do be quiet, Daisy!' 'Hell's, bloody, teeth!'

Eccentric, British, mayhem. Very Pink Floyd.

I lit this from outside with a couple of Profoto heads to simulate natural light. His house was old with tiny cobwebbed windows that barely let any light in.