He would never tell anyone that he could see only in black and white, not even the occasional partner who exclaimed, “Wow, Andy, that was amazing, pyrotechnics, all those colours, fantastic, did you see all that?” and he would say, “Yeah, fantastic, technicolour, wow,” and she would say, “God I love you,” and he would say, “And I love you too,” which was the truth unlike the bit about technicolour fireworks because ever since his then best friend Jack whacked him on the back of the head with a table tennis bat for being too triumphal after winning a particularly long rally, he never did see colours again.
He never really thought of his loss of colour as a major handicap. It did mean, of course that he could never become a fighter pilot and fly around killing people, nor would he ever become a champion table tennis player, not while the television people insisted on the use of the orange ball, but on the other hand when he went to college to study filmmaking, he discovered he had an aptitude for making black and white films that astonished his tutors and won him all sorts of accolades for his graduate projects.
In later years, the only thing that got in the way of his taking the Palme d’Or at Cannes was his appalling sense of dress. After all, they can’t have a winner who wears orange socks with sky blue trousers.