Three generations is a family portrait, a landscape, and a ‘timescape.’ It was made in 2014 and depicts my mother, then in her early 90s, in conversation with one of my nieces, Ellie, being photographed by me – reflected in the window. That moment was captured in July 2013, the month the temperature topped thirty degrees every day. Behind them is the house my parents bought, as a pair of ruined and abandoned cottages, in the 1950s, shortly after they were married. It is the house where I was born and grew up. It is barely visible on the pot, covered in tiny white roses. The plant itself was there when it was bought and was just a stump. My green fingered mother nurtured it into the magnificent thing it now is but she never did identify the type. It has a peculiarly medicinal smell. In the foreground is the Laburnum tree I remember so well as a child. The girl reaching for the flowers is Ellie’s younger sister – a fiction – the tree had come down by the time the grandchildren were born. Moving round the pot, we see the garden and steps going up to another rose arch, and then find my father seated on a bench, reading the paper, with his coffee on a table. It’s Saturday. It must because my father is not at work and the image is from 1976, another long hot Summer. Another rose arch leads down some steps to the field, which slopes down to the River Glyme. It is brimming with buttercups. They are not a fiction, they really are that colour.