My
paternal Victorian grandfather – Albert – was a master saddle maker turned tent
maker. My dad left school at 13 to work for his dad in 1926 and despite wanting
to be a forester he ended running his dad business when his dad got ill 5 years
later and never escaped. And that was it for him apart from his Second World
War service in the navy (But that’s another story). So my mum worked part-time
for my dad and my sister worked full time for him after leaving school at 15. I
worked for my dad every summer holiday from aged 3 – I have the photos to prove
it until I left Uni. My godmother worked part-time as a secretary for my dad in
the evenings and on Sunday afternoons. So he worked 7 days a week! I had a few
honorary uncles and aunts who worked for my dad and members of their families
babysat me and my sister.
To
escape I choose the hip new world of computer programming – this was in 1968 –
and hoped to make a career there. I loved history but did not want to teach it
and maths so computers seemed a good choice. I enjoyed figuring out flow charts
and algorithms but really hated coding. When I got an NHS job as a computer
programmer in London in 1971 I spend 15 months writing coding like:
101.72,78,4. And if the typist misread my figures the programme would not work
and a day would be wasted! This was long before personal computers!
So I quit moved to Notting Hill Gate and eventually got heavily into therapy. But that’s another story.
The point of my story which I seemed to have lost(!) was how I did not feel I belonged in my family – I used to think I was adopted as this would explain things (quite a common fantasy among counsellors apparently). And when I left there was no going back. I have returned for funerals and felt a strong sense of community which I have birth rites to but can’t live in. And living in a fashionable part of Manchester that is forever changing I feel something is lost.
