Morden around 1969 My brothers and I arrived wearing sailor jackets with brass buttons. John and Nola, who were there for our arrival, propped us up against the Charing Cross monument, and, in the weak sunlight, took our picture. Our rented house in South London was claustrophobic. None of us knew to consistantly wipe our muddy shoes clean on the doormat, remembered to always hang our duffle coats up and make our beds and we were always losing our gloves and spatting. Dad bought a green Riley Classic which was difficult to start in the mornings and which made us late. It smelled of peeling leather and of the stuffing that burst through rips in the seats. In winter, once we had scratched the frost off the window pane at the front and off the window at the back with a knife, the car needed cranking and the choke needed pumping before it would go. Primary school was in an old Victorian building. It had high ceilings and long corridors slapped with a bubbling la
Left wing commentary from the heart and the head