LITMIR.BIZ

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      My early years were spent living in a small coastal town, Portishead, where I attended St Barnabas Primary School.

      I was happy, with a best friend called Amy, another close friend, Sasha, and a mate, Matthew, who lived next door. My parents would often tease me about him, playing the Boris Gardiner record (Jamaican pop reggae artist); “I Wanna Wake Up with You.” I was only six.

      Mum and Dad also liked to torment us. As Dad said, “It was good fun.” One time, they recorded the Jaws soundtrack and hid speakers under our beds. Shelly and I never ran so fast in our lives! It was cruel, but they found it hilarious. It taught me that fun, laughter and love are the foundations for living.

      Generally, I was well-behaved; though Amy got me in big trouble once. I was sick at school, and her mum collected me, so my mum did not have to leave work early. Amy feigned illness so she could come home, too. While we played, Amy said: “Mum and Dad have decided to repaint my bedroom on the weekend, so it’s alright to draw on the walls with crayons.” I was so naive at seven that I believed her. When we were done, the walls were filled with lots of lovely pictures!

      While admiring our handiwork, Amy’s mum opened the bedroom door. She saw the walls and went crazy. She screeched in a high-pitched voice like a madwoman and I burst into tears. I’d never felt so terrified. Truth was, I’d never ever done anything so naughty before to feel the wrath of an angry parent—I was always such a good girl. But at that moment, I was ashamed, embarrassed, and truly upset. It was a disturbing feeling, one that I’d never want to experience again.

      “Vicki, you are going to be in serious trouble when your mum hears what you’ve done!” She paused, “Amy, how could you let Vicki scribble on the walls of your room?” I was furious that she assumed I was to blame. Amy stared at the floor, letting me take full responsibility. My heart hurt for the very first time. It was an odd sensation; one I didn’t like. As a loved kid, I’d never endured emotional pain before, and I did not understand that uneasy feeling was betrayal.

      “You big pig!” I retaliated. Not only was I upset, I was frightened and didn’t want to be shouted at again. I pushed past her, fled down the stairs and out the back door. I ran home as fast as my little legs could carry me. I was petrified I would be in huge trouble with Mum and Dad when they came home from work.

      The incident taught me an important early life lesson. Never take someone’s word as gospel truth. Always check with someone you can trust, like a Mum or Dad!

      ~

      Life went on. We innocently rode our bikes, went trick-or-treating on Halloween as cute witches, and raced on sleds in the snow—if it ever fell. Birthdays were filled with disco dancing and simple games like Pass the Parcel, Musical Statues, Musical Chairs, and Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

      And the yummy, crumbly birthday cakes filled with jam and cream, and decorated with colorful frostings, were always made by nan Mildred. My favorite ever was a cake shaped like a pink Care Bear, complete with red liquorice paws. Nan had done me proud—it was a masterpiece.

      Mum was always the Minister of Birthday Gifts. She made all the selections but as she didn’t drive, she left the collecting to Dad. The year I colored Amie’s walls, Dad drove hundreds of miles to buy a pink and blue doll cradle they knew I fancied. I never asked, but I always assumed Mum and Dad believed my explanation about the colored walls. That incident taught me the power of truth; even though, as an adult, I still struggle with identifying versions of the truth.

      ~

      My parents worked hard. On weekends we would snuggle in bed and sing Sister Sledge: “We are family. I’ve got all my sisters with me.” They taught me how children should be loved. So, no matter what crazy things I have done as an adult, I have always made sure to love my children in the same way. I cherish them and love them from the bottom of my heart. They are my world and I cannot imagine life without them.

      Sundays in our household were for coming together as a family. Three generations always enjoyed a traditional British roast. Summer meals also included crisp red radishes Uncle Reg grew in his garden.

      Fat Auntie Sandra (nan’s sister), always provided a humorous dinner interlude. She’d perch on the same seat at the dinner table with a white starched napkin tucked over her gigantic breasts. Without fail, she’d blurt, “Albert, where is the wine?”

      Gramps would pour red into the glasses dotted around the table, while everyone plated up from the antique serving dishes. Of course, the wine was always spilled or dripped onto Nan’s brilliant white cloth.

      “For Goodness sake Albert, why couldn’t you just wait until everyone had served up. Now look at the cloth!” she’d scorn. My sister and I would giggle, having already predicted the weekly wine drama.

      On occasion, we would go to Auntie Sandra’s house in Somerset, but my sister and I thought her house was haunted and would never go upstairs alone. It was silly. Auntie’s house was Victorian, but there certainly were no ghosts. The fact was, she rarely put the heating on, so the house was always freezing, which we mistook for creepy. Still, we enjoyed delicious roasts and playing solitaire marbles while there.

      ~

      While we weren’t rich, Dad and Mum made sure they saved money for a nice annual family vacation. Summers usually meant seaside caravan holidays to Devon and Cornwall, where Shelly and I wore matching frilly bikinis, tassel beach dresses, jelly shoes, and cool fancy-dress costumes that Dad designed for the clubhouse competitions.

      As we got older, we began to venture abroad, often joined by Nan and Gramps, to beautiful resorts in Menorca, Cyprus, Crete, and France. I felt like the luckiest kid in the world. During the day, we’d go rock climbing with Dad, build elaborate sandcastles and speedboats, and get buried in the sand on the beach. Dad used to joke, “Vicki, you are very good at burying men.” Neither he nor I knew how right he was at the time.

      Evenings were reserved for visiting Greek tavernas. Mum and Dad’s favorite spot in Limassol, Cyprus, was the Blue Island restaurant, where food always took second place to dance. Male dancers wore traditional pleated skirts, white shirts, black satin waist sashes, and cute shoes with pompons. I was fascinated. Everyone would dance on tables, in the street, balance glasses on the dancers’ heads, and even set fire to newspapers tucked into their skirts as they danced! The Blue Island is where I developed my lifelong love affair with dancing. Dancing makes me laugh and feel good, even during the darkest moments.

      Family holidays taught me that laughter should always be part of life, something I’ve forgotten at points in my life. Mum and Dad also instilled us with three other values that I hold dear:

      1 Family is everything, especially respect for your elders.

      1 Kindness matters, so always be courteous.

      1 Recognize that that fear is an illusion, so never feel afraid.

      ~

      My first personal crisis occurred at the age of seven, when we moved to a new house in Weston-super-Mare, a traditional seaside town, to be closer to Nan and Gramps.

      Mum transferred her job in a Portishead warehouse to the Weston branch, much closer to her parents, whom she loved dearly. At first blush, the move made great sense. The new house was bigger, and the garden was quite substantial. Dad planted colorful Petunias, Fuchsia, Hydrangeas, and Begonias and Mum loved to potter around and see the fruits of their labor.

      We had fun living by the beach with donkeys and Punch and Judy puppet shows. Weston also has a big pier with amusements and rides, and at the time, the Tropicana, a huge lido (public open-air swimming pool) with a wave machine and pineapple-shaped water chutes. It was THE place to be and the most fun you could ever have.

      The one thing Weston didn’t have were friends for me. Even though we were less than an hour from Portishead, I had to start all over, a frightening thought when you’re young. But my sister Shelly was always there, even though she teased me unmercifully.

      For

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