Let’s start with me, the eleven year old me. In our very first history lesson at Grammar School, we had to write a time line, charting our lives up till that point. Mine had already been quite eventful. We’d moved from rural Yorkshire to scarily cosmopolitan London when I was five, to enable my father to find work. I’d had – and totally recovered from – polio. And although we were far from wealthy, we’d been abroad several times, at a time when it was still quite unusual to venture further than the English seaside for the annual summer holiday.
My father was behind that: there’s a story there too. He’d come from Poland in the war, and ….. but that’s for another post. As are some of the stories from my early days in Yorkshire, and the several false starts in our efforts to make a life in The Big City.