When I was 12 to 13 years old in the early 1980s, I had extra lessons with a private female tutor in her large Victorian semi-detached house. Ms Booth, the lady, was a retired head teacher in her late 60s; she was a well-dressed and strict lady. Each week, usually on Saturday mornings, I would cycle to her house, leaving my bike unlocked around the back of her house, and knock at the back door. I was usually waved in from the dining room window, removing my shoes and entering the dining room. A lesson lasted between an hour to

I met my wife, Alison, at university. It was the end of the first year for both of us, in the late 1980s. It must have been a year we had been going out when I was invited to her parents’ house. Alison had a younger sister, Laura, who was 15 or 16 years old and was a real handful for her parents. Alison had warned me there maybe some shouting but not to worry about it. We had separate rooms as sleeping together then before marriage under her parents’ roof was not acceptable. Her sister shared with Alison and

I was brought up in Walsall in the West Midlands and I worked my way through our local school from Infants, Juniors and, after failing my eleven plus, to Seniors. This was a real culture shock. A lot of my friends had gone to other schools and I was alone in this strange place with strict male teachers, homework, the strap and slipper for children who broke the lots of unwritten rules in the classrooms. Girls sat one side of the room and boys the other, with the brightest at the front and less bright children at the rear. There