Reflections on 1975

The journey up to Liverpool was a long one from Epsom. We arrived in the dark outside the red brick building where my paternal Nanna had just moved in to a new flat. The living room ceilings were impossibly high, and every available surface was taken with either a photo or china.

The wireless was wooden, with a fabric speaker and dials to change the station. The throaty sound of Radio Merseyside filled the room during the day. At night it was replaced by the picture of a colour TV.

At school, we did a play in the classroom. I had a leading part, and at one point in the play, I had to pretend to climb down a ladder and there was a ghost at the bottom. Each time it made me jump, even though I knew it was coming.