Of course, these days, the notion of leaving kids alone, with no money and no telephone for hours on end in a museum in London would be considered neglect, but to us, it was just magical.
All I know is that as I write this, I am still training to be a priest, trying to get some funds in to extend the church’s services in the community whilst David Norris, the killer of Stephen Lawrence remains in prison.
Much to my disdain, I was born at Queen Mary’s Hospital in Sidcup when Sidcup was part of Kent. I was always a bit envious of my peers born at Farnborough Hospital, which, to my mind, was a better start in life. It sounded nicer than Sidcup, which, whenever we drove through, seemed to be between places; it wasn’t a destination; it was a place one went through and therefore was not a place for starting anything, let alone a life, my life.
What could be done? Nothing. It was as it was.
One of my favourite anecdotes relating to this was when she was reading the story Rapunzel. The word Rapunzel was a challenge for her, yet she knew there was a type of lettuce called Rapunzel. So when reading the story to us as we sat on the sofa next to her when we were young, she skipped the heroine’s name in the fairy tale and instead replaced it with the word ‘lettuce’.