My parents were of the world war two generation – dad had been a sailor on HMS Belfast – so he took me to the Imperial War Museum too. So I made my dad take me to the British Museum as often as possible. At school we’d studied the Romans and the Saxons, and I was fascinated by it all. Then he came back, and soon Saturday mornings were taken up by dad’s weekly “access visits|”. He had become a mythical figure, someone I longed for and resented because of his absence. My dad was working abroad and I hadn’t seen him for several years. I was living with my mum and older sister in a rented flat in south London – my parents had separated when I was five and got divorced a couple of years later, which was unusual at the time. In 1965 I was 11 and in my last year at Junior school.
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