Small me. Two words. Constant. Questions.

In 1968 my beloved grandfather, Bill, had a series of heart attacks that would put him in Stoke Mandeville hospital for many weeks. This was very disappointing. Up to that point I had seen him as infallible, a role model, a small, hilarious and adventurous man who closely resembled Popeye. He was deeply kind and determined to paddle his own canoe, leaving burnt toast crumbs, buttery knives and confusion in his wake.

Mummy. Two words. Perfectionist. Anxious.

Daddy. Two words. Perfectionist. Sleepy.

There were a few other children I played with around this time, but they have blurred into the past. It was Bill, known as Gab or Gabba, who embodied friendship. It’s interesting that I also adored the young male teacher who saved me (exceptionally literate, could read the newspaper on my dad’s knee age 4) from total innumeracy. He went back to baby maths with coloured wooden blocks to demonstrate addition and subtraction and I can’t recall how I finally got the hang of the clock, or money, but I know it was hard. I honestly think my focus was so intensely on words and pictures I saw no need for numbers or science. Until THE PRISM. This stick of glass appeared from the teacher’s pocket one day and he placed it next to his ledger for a while. I realise now that this was theatre, he was waiting for the sun to come out. Of course it was me, unable to marshal my emotions, who shrieked ‘Ohhhh - isn’t it luvverleyyy!’ when the rainbow appeared on the classroom wall. Everyone laughed. Of course, this event had triggered a problem. Science was now interesting too and I would have questions.

Other loved teachers were to come, who wouldn’t mind me or my oddness, perhaps the insides of their heads were similar. I so longed to be friends with grownups. Children were by and large, dreadful.

While Gabba lay in hospital, I imagined his garden shed in darkness, with the spiders taking over and his tools rusting. We didn’t see him or my Nanny, Ida, (two words - steely, private) very often, as we lived miles apart, but the idea of his being plucked from his environment into a strange hospital sent me into a panic of separation. I started to write and draw feverishly, stapled pamphlets together on subjects like furniture (?!) which I’m sure baffled him, and because one of his most heroic traits to me was his time in the Merchant Navy, I added rum and raisin chocolate to this pile of paper offerings and posted him a rescue package in a shoe box.

Praise the heavens, he wasn’t dead - he wrote back! I was meant for a career in illustrated journalism, he said. What better thing could have been said?