Let us pick up memories, washed here like shells upon the shorelines of our minds.
I never really had the yearning to travel, yet here I am three continents away from my roots. They say we all have a story, even those of us who have never suffered the hardships of poverty or abuse. My story starts in the south of England and travels across emotional continents to Australia, via South Africa. Writing this has forced me to take a serious look at the journey of my identity.
I am a baby-boomer, that post-war generation of children who have taken as their right all the things their parents fought for, a generation who had never heard of nut allergies, lactose or gluten intolerance, yet some say it was a generation of self-absorption, paving the way for the bloggers and tweeters of today.
To understand my attitude to life, to emigration and ultimately to old age, I have to climb on board the Tardis and re-live my life, identifying what values were established during childhood and how I have developed the skills essential to handle life’s ups and downs. Or not, as the case may be.
My earliest memory of when I was three years old, pictures my mother taking me out to afternoon tea with a lady friend of hers. I can remember wanting to wear a clover pink jumper over the top of my dress instead of the blue cardigan my mother had put out for me. As she was putting ribbons in my hair I asked, ‘Will they think I’m pretty?’ I knew her friend didn’t have any children of her own, so I thought she might be pleased to see a little girl who was pretty. Thus vanity, which I interpret as pride, the last of the seven deadly sins, was in my character from the word go. And as my story continues, so the remaining six become apparent.