I grabbed my pole that had a purple worm on it and asked Stephanie, “I got a purple worm. Will that work here?” She laughed and said, “Really?�... and she started giggling. “I like purple ones. I like live ones better though.” She sat down and pulled out a big fat nightcrawler from a plastic container. She put it on her hook and stood up. She held her pole up with the nightcrawler dangling in the air in front of me and said, “Is your worm bigger than this?” and started giggling again as she. She was a bohemian, a writer of feminist work almost before feminism had been invented, thrice married, twice divorced and once widowed and lived what my Father called a louche lifestyle in Belgravia. My Mother had died when I was three years old. A succession of Nannies looked after us until John went off to Eton at the age of thirteen and I did my best to educate myself. I’d managed to secure a place at University which, surprisingly, my Father encouraged and, aged eighteen, I went to Oxford,. More

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