In August
1965, my sister and I stayed for a week with our uncle in Winchester. It was
tagged on to the end of our fortnight’s family holiday in Somerset, after our
parents had travelled back home. My uncle wanted to
entertain us in the direction of a spot of cultural improvement. I just wanted
to spend the whole week on Winchester City station [as it was then known to
distinguish it from Chesil] - apart from a short trip to Eastleigh, obviously.
He did
manage to persuade me to accompany him to Portchester Castle but I think I won
on all the other days. Culture could wait, but the Bullied Pacifics couldn’t.
They would all be gone within a couple of years, so I couldn’t hang around.
That is, I mean, I needed to hang around quite a lot, actually.
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