So, where do I start? I was born, accidentally, somewhere in London, a week before Christmas 1957, nine months after a night of passion (or so I like to hope). My earliest memories are of a very bright friendly Children's Home, in an old Dickensian type building, surrounded by railings in one of the grubbier parts of London.
	I vaguely remember going to infants school early, and being allowed to take the class register somewhere, and that the Home was at one end of the street, and the infant school was at the other. I also have an idea that the Home was on the corner of a main road, near to a railway bridge, and that the area seemed dark and dingy. I remember one particular Christmas Eve at the Home; I could not have been very old, we had all gone to bed, excited at the thought that Father Christmas would be visiting if we had been good. At some point, one of the little girls in the dormitory woke up. To her surprise Father Christmas HAD been!!  On the end of each of the little metal bedsteads was an interesting bag. She whispered to the child in the neighbouring bed who started unwrapping. Gradually the whole dormitory woke up, and jumped about opening everybody else's presents, excited to be able to discover the gifts that had been delivered. Suddenly there were loud voices outside in the corridor, everybody dived back into their beds frightened out of their wits without knowing why, pulled up the blankets and pretended to be asleep. Two or three members of staff crept around the dormitory to see who was really asleep. All of the little girls, who were obviously faking, were hauled out of bed and made to stand in the corridor. I opened my eyes at the wrong moment... Once in the corridor, after having been lined up with all the other miscreants, told off, smacked and put back to bed, we discovered that it was in fact only about 9.30 or 10 p.m.! Such is the excitement of Christmas when one is very young.