26. A Day Out With My Father
I don’t think I’d told my friends I was the kind of girl who got keys through the post from law firms in Westminster about houses that were empty and mine, but they took it in their stride. As we piled into my camper - my tall and pretty as an angel boyfriend, his dog, some of the band, a few friends who’d been passing by - I remembered the last time I’d been there. It had been a day like that one, sunny and bright, summer coming. I was eleven years old; I’d been hanging about in the low-beamed kitchen of the cottage where my father lived, the place we invaded at weekends. 70’s jeans, Kickers…
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