I remember Mother Dorothy who said it was rude to have asked her old she was.

I remember I told my mother, who said who cared what Mother Dorothy thought.

I remember being sent to my bedroom as punishment which seemed odd because you could read a book which was a pleasure.

I remember Winston Churchill who my mother said she never liked.

I remember Miss Crail who taught us ballroom dancing and said the boys mustn’t kick her legs because they were very valuable.

I remember my Holy Communion and wondering what the big deal was but not wanting to say so.

I remember Miles the gardener who my mother said she avoided because given half the chance he talked dirty.

I remember running away from home at seventeen and getting a job in a nightclub and only realising later that all the other waitresses were on the game. 

I remember Cyril Connolly.  He had a podgy face.

I remember the first time I got drunk and thinking I should not do that again.

I remember that you couldn’t get the Pill if you weren’t married unless you knew a friendly doctor in London and I didn’t.

I remember Cooper’s marmalade and the ham they carved off the bone.

I remember thinking The Secret Garden was the best book I had ever read.

I remember wondering if anyone else thought of Monday as black and Tuesday as pinkish but dark and Wednesday as lighter and Thursday a bit like Monday only bluer and Friday as green and Saturday as dirty white and Sunday as very white.

I remember longing for a house with a tennis court and a drive and a mother who spoke nicely and didn’t work.