The baby I have been writing about, my first child, was born safe and well on January 7th 1965 – Andrew Walter Tudway. Early on the morning of the 5th I seemed to start in labour and was admitted to the maternity unit. There, I was prepared, known in those days...
Note: this is a true story, although I’ve changed the names. It was originally experienced and written in September 2012. The baby I wrote about in last week’s memoir entry was born, safe and well, on January 7th 1965 – Andrew Walter Tudway. So instead of...
I regretted in retrospect that Roger and I did not see my family that Christmas; of course we did not know it would be the last for both my parents. Because my mother was still in hospital in London, my father went to stay with Auntie Mary. She was his cousin and only...
My first husband, Roger Tudway, didn’t get on well with my father, who was worried – rightly – about his drinking, but Roger adored my mother. He had been instrumental in having her to stay with us when we were doing our house officer year in Hereford so that we could...
So, here is where, perhaps, my memoirs will really start. Another key point, a nodal point, late in 1964, with me aged 27, married and expecting my first baby. Increasingly worried about balancing the needs of a sick mother, recently diagnosed with dementia, an...
I never felt I wanted to write a straightforward autobiography. I think it would be impossible to be detached enough to be really honest, and if I wasn’t honest, it would feel unsatisfying. Anyway, I guess I embarrass my children enough without that. My style is...
