I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember. As a kid, weekends meant curling up on the big, comfy sofa in the drawing room and disappearing into a book for hours at a time. Just before my father passed away, I asked him to write down his memoirs, and I think he was rather chuffed that I did. He sat at a manual typewriter and tapped away into the early hours, night after night, week after week, working his way through a lifetime of stories. I read it at the time and thought it was fabulous, the kind of thing that deserved more than one reader. So I’ve decided to share it here, part by part, while I work up the nerve to have a proper go at writing my own.
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