If I look half asleep here. Is it a sign that I would never become interested in fashion?
This picture ends my earliest years. According to my dad's note in the photo album with my name on it, I was 17 months here. So November 1942.
My brother would arrive in March 1943 and after that we were two in most pictures.
After his birth we moved to our house.
These were good and peaceful years, when I didn't know anything about the world outside of our home. This world where grownups were fighting a second world war; where mean kids and bullies would soon make me miserable; where polio, the horrific illness that so often affected children, would cause so much fear and would hit so very close to home.
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I think I want to write about my life until the end of my early teenage years, fifteen maybe. Watching my great-nieces growing up, the difference between their lives and mine are astonishing.
