Twenty-six years ago, I left Exeter, where I’d lived for nearly ten years, to move back to Essex and get married. It was an exciting time, but my emotions were mixed. I was leaving a place I loved, a job I enjoyed and friends who were so embedded in my heart that packing up and saying goodbye was almost too painful to bear. On the other hand, I was looking forward to spending the rest of my life with the man I loved, with no need to spend all our disposable income on phone calls and train journeys from one side of the country to the other.
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Hair Toss, Check My Nails, Baby How You Feelin'?
It’s been a rough week. I won’t lie to you. Thank goodness for writing, which always helps. Last week’s blog, Christine Keeler’s Eyelashes, hasn’t done what all my other pieces do. I think about them, write them, publish them and let them amble out into the world by themselves. Christine won’t leave. Like a shy child hiding behind its mother’s skirts, she’s still very much on my mind.
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Christine Keeler's eyelashes
I’ve been watching the BBC’s Sunday night drama, “The Trial of Christine Keeler”. As the story unfolded, I was gripped. I was born in 1966, only three years after the Profumo Affair, but Christine had been on the periphery for me for years. What did I know about her? She was young, incredibly beautiful, usually described as a call girl or a model and seemingly irresistible to powerful men. It turns out I knew next to nothing.
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