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I have been told by my friend David (about whom more later, and later doesn't necessarily mean today, but definitely at some point, okay?) that I have to write a biography, and I cannot tell you how much the prospect fills me with ennui. I've been using delaying tactics for hours, but as I - rashly - promised that I would deliver today, here goes. I was born in Woking, Surrey on the 20th of December 1943. After completing her confinement - in those days you remained in hospital for at least 10 days after giving birth - my father removed my mother and myself from the hospital to our home in Byfleet, also in Surrey, and there I remained for the first 18 years of my life, although my mother having decided that marriage and maternity was not to her liking, left when I was 16 months old, never to return. I was sent to the Marist Convent in West Byfleet when I was 4 and left aged 16 with absolutely nothing resembling an education, a life long resistance to organized religion, and several problems of a psychological nature. This required the best years of my life, a great deal of dosh, and a very talented psychiatrist to resolve. I'm not saying it was quite the "Magdalene Sisters - there was no laundry - but I suspect they were kissing cousins. I wasn't Catholic myself, but of the two schools available in the area at that time, my father felt that if he sent me to the convent I would emerge as a 'lady'. Sorry Dad! I originally wanted to be a ballerina, but weak ankles, height (too tall) and an absence of the requisite talent put paid to that little fantasy. But... I was sent to Miss Nurse - one of the two lay teachers at the convent, the other being Mrs. Watson who taught games, and was never able to convince me that playing hockey and netball in temperatures that were frequently below freezing was 'fun' or indeed anything approaching levity. There are days when I find myself in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, either listening to Radio 4 or reading a riveting book, with a (real) coal fire blazing in the hearth and Caspar (cat) curled up next to me. Outside, the rain is driving down, the trees bent double with the force of the gale, and it's colder than the proverbial witches tit. But conditions such as these never deterred Mrs. Watson from giving us our dose of 'character building' experience, although she herself took refuge in the doorway to the gym, thus avoiding the inclement conditions. We - girls - were dressed in navy blue shorts, white blouses, long fawn socks, tie and appropriate footwear. So on the aforementioned days when I find myself in bed, propped up etc., the gleeful thought does (quite frequently actually) come into my head, 'up yours Mrs. Watson'. This degree of rebellion in a woman of 62 strikes me as possibly a tad inappropriate and causes me to question whether the psychiatrist in question was QUITE as good as I believed him to be, and if I am perhaps not QUITE as sorted as I would, perhaps, like to believe I am. An unsettling thought to be pursued at a later date. (But, I'm sure I'm wrong, I am the very acme of sanity, so therefore 'sorted' Simple.) But, I digress. I was sent to Miss Nurse, or Nanny as I learned to call her, for elocution lessons. Nanny decided that I had talent as an actress, nurtured it and persuaded my father to allow me to audition for RADA. I did, was accepted, won a county scholarship and off I went - fresh from the convent into the decadent world of drama - and if you want to know anymore may I suggest that you read my blog? I'm not convinced that any of the above is necessarily your average biography, but there you go, I did me best.
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