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The camping holiday

My father was an unhappy man, silent and angry. Luckily, we were seldom in his company. Then we went camping

By prospect   June 1998

It was July 1963, a Monday, and we were due to leave for our long promised camping holiday in Wales. We awoke early, my brother and I. He was six, I was eight. At that time we lived with our father. My mother had left the previous year.

My father’s name was Ernest. He was an unhappy man, silent and angry. Luckily, we were seldom in each other’s company because he worked at night and slept for most of the day. He preferred the night, he said, because he could work on restoring his beloved Railton motorcars (he had two)…

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