In the town where I was born . . .
A family visit took me back to Somerset yesterday – I tried to see the place where I was born as if for the first time. The Taunton station sign is remembered with a deep sense of foreboding – it meant catching the train to school for a new term.
Looking afterwards at what I had taken, I thought they probably looked nothing like the place – even the roundabout in the town centre looks like a village square – there could have been shots of dereliction and …