I was back home the other day, clearing out the attic, where, inexplicably, a great deal of my dearest childhood possessions had wound up; cherished dolls, knitted by a late grandmother; industrious railway tracks by Brio and Tomy; and enough Lego to fill a skip. I was conflicted. On the one hand, relieved; my parents had said they had all been stolen one night by goblins. On the other hand, betrayed; my parents had lied to me. And if they lied to me about this, what other pillars of my reality are built on quicksand. Father Christmas? The Tooth Fairy? Say it ain’t so!

But parental deceit aside, I also came across a set of photographs I had at Sixth Form. Proper photography; with darkrooms, heady chemical fugs, and bearded men swearing at size zero supermodels. As I drifted from print to print – out of focus, blurry and overexposed – I came to realise something. I love photography.

Despite centuries of bizarrely bedecked fellows in pulpits assuring them that there is an afterlife of an eternal persuasion, men have sought immortality – usually vicariously through great works. The Pyramids at Giza, defeating the French (at anything) or even A Clockwork Orange. The gist of this being that if someone remembers you, then in some way, you’ll still be alive. Admittedly, not in the way that really counts, but it’s something.

And that’s what I like about photography. Photos are a window into our past. And it’s not just the great and the grand. You can look back in your family albums, smile at relatives long-dead and recall their adventures and anecdotes. Photography has offered immortality to the common man in far greater numbers than any religious leader.

When our grandchildren, or scouts from an alien race (or both), go through these documents of our existence, I’m sure they’ll reach the conclusion that we lived in a permanent state of bliss and that the Eiffel Tower is only a measuring rule for getting a photo straight

But there is a twist to this, a hellfire to this eternity. Photos, especially now, in the days of digital and disposable cameras, have become… repetitive. Open any packet of holiday snaps and I guarantee that the majority of photos will be of families smiling in front of each and every minor landmark, with the occasional mother reclining on a sun-bed in the shade.

Exhibit B, Facebook, that testament to our age. Select an album at a random and have a quick e-flick through. You will see a group of friends, with some variations and substitutions, in a club, bar, or party somewhere, smiling, cheering, and generally indicating how they’re having a grand old time. Now, go to the next album. See anything different?

I’m not saying we shouldn’t record the good times. But when our grandchildren, or scouts from an alien race (Or both), go through these documents of our existence, I’m sure they’ll reach the conclusion that we lived in a permanent state of bliss and that the Eiffel Tower is only a measuring rule for getting a photo straight. It’s repetitive, it’s monotonous, it’s boring. Of course we should remember times when we were happy, but we should also recall when we were sad or angry, when we were lonely and sick, to complement and contrast. Only then can we remember ourselves and be remembered as people, living, breathing humans – not some horrible all-smiling monstrosity from a Batman serial.

What I’m saying is that photos should be our biographies. And unlike written biographies, they’re notoriously easy to make. All we have to do is live – something I find comes naturally to most people. The man with the camera will do the rest.

They’re also more powerful. They say a picture says a thousand words, and I think they’re right. Do you really need words when you see photographs of the Twin Towers or 7⁄7? Or how about when the Berlin Wall came down? Or that one with Einstein sticking his tongue out?

And with that, there’s nothing left for me to say but – CHEESE!