We were all strangely out of date and time
an exotic Bohemian family
in dreary Fifties Britain.
Doris and her father Herbert
were bright, articulate people
with Pitman's shorthand as their second language.
Arcadia
Dad a buttoned-up young man from
an affluent middle class family.
Privately educated, he was put into a trade
by his bank manager father.
A toolmaker, who at the ridicule of his fellow
workers would sit at break time in the
tool room reading Dickens.
Over the dinner table at home with his
right-wing parents the conversation would get heated
with Dad expounding the virtues of Socialism,
bordering on Marxism.
The price his parents paid, I suppose, for putting
this deep thinker into the rarefied atmosphere
of trade unions and the injustices of the working
mans' world.
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