I can clearly hear the TV on the other side of the window. It’s my daughter, who should be at school, but presented me with a “throat like knives” in the early morning darkness, and like a fool, I gave in.
I was good at “feeling ill”. I developed pink cheeks, high temperatures, fevers, sickness, all overnight, and my mother always believed me. Apparently I had a weak chest, weak stomach, weak everything. The result is terrible spelling and a hazy sense of punctuation. However in those pre-telly days, it also lead to reading and drawing. Tonnes of it. I worked my way through my brother and sister’s Tintin books, all the pony books I could find, even my Grandmother’s collection of Jean Plaidy. I raided the Mobile Library and found the Hobbit, Stig of the Dump, Tom’s Midnight Garden, the works of Roald Dahl, and James Thurber, and ultimately, the last book remember reading as a child, the Silver Sword by Ian Serraillier.