My childhood summers were predictably variable. A smattering of cloudless days, when the blue stretched from horizon to horizon, were peppered throughout the season. But these were sandwiched between regular — then — undesirable downpours, and long periods dominated by opaque Tupperware skies. Of course, one’s sharpest memories are of the days filled with sunshine. It seemed as if we spent endless time in a blur of daisy chain-making, splashing in a paddling pool, and lying prostrate on a green lawn, gazing up at the sky. The reality was undoubtedly less picture-perfect; most holiday photos show us in long sleeves, sheltering beneath a brolly on Margate beach.
The standout year was 1976. I was taking GCEs at the Royal Ballet School in the middle of
