I loved my life in Byfleet. No; I didn't. I loved Byfleet, not the life I lived there.

I was born in the (then) small town of Woking, Surrey in December 1943, (For the astrologically aware, it was the 20th, making me a Sagittarian) and after her confinement mother and child returned to their home in Queens Avenue, Byfleet. In those days Byfleet was a small country village; our food was grown in the surrounding fields, harvested - in season - and delivered to the local green-grocers - two as I recall - to be purchased by the women of the village, carrying large, leather shopping bags or baskets of woven straw. Sheep and cattle grazed in gentle meadows, unaware of their imminent demise, and appeared later as legs, shoulders, saddles and offal in the window of our local butcher, the slaughter house being a few steps from the shop.

Our Avenue was lined with chestnut trees, so my parents - who were not known for their originality - named the house 'Chestnuts' and there I remained for the first seventeen years of my life. My mother didn't, but more about that later.

At the bottom of our garden was a large field, in the centre of which was a perfectly manicured, emerald green cricket pitch, where men dressed in pristine whites, would play on drowsy Sunday afternoons. Deck chairs containing the men of the village, replete with recently downed pints of beer at the Queens Head, and the ritual of Sunday lunch, lay heavily on the striped canvas as they formed a small group of spectators. Bees buzzed lazily in the warmth of the day, the wings of butterflies shimmered in the late afternoon sun, and mysterious shadows were cast by the leaves of oak trees as the gentle breeze parted their Summer foliage and whispered through their secrets. (If you think I'm seeing this through the rosy glow of nostalgia, where the birds always sang, and the sun always shone; you're wrong; it frequently pissed down).

The best thing from my point of view, was not the cricket itself, but the tea we enjoyed afterwards in the wooden pavillion whose clock, centred in a slope in the middle of its roof would, at the appropriate time, signal the umpire to end the match so tea could commence. The wives of the players, all sporting aprons and hats, would prepare a feast of sausage rolls, cheese straws, cheese, tomato, and marmite sandwiches, egg and cress rolls, jam tarts, cup-cakes, fancies, battenburg cake and swiss roll! Steaming amber liquid served from a dull silver cylinder flowed constantly into thick white cups laced with milk and sugar for the grown-ups; and tizer, lemonade and ginger beer for the children.

I loved the cricket field; in Summer it would be carpeted with celandine; buttercups; and daisies, which I would weave into chains, and place on my head and around my neck. Cow parsley grew in profusion from the ditch that ran around three sides of the field, the elms, oaks and sycamore that lined it's steep sides heavy with their summer foliage. All the houses on the left side of the Avenue had gardens with gates at the bottom that opened onto the field, enabling neighbours to chat together and children to play. Cowboys and Indians, was a great favourite, but being the only girl in my peer group I was always the lone Indian, always captured and bound to a tree, while Anthony Wand, Jeremy Bean and John Bragg fired my arrows at me. I still have a small scar in my right eyebrow; a reminder of the time when Ant got lucky. In order to gain admission into their gang, I had to squeeze a bunch of stinging nettles and not make any sound at all.

In the Autumn, we played in the Avenue as the chestnut trees filled the street with russet coloured leaves in which we could hide and roll around, and fling great armfuls at each other; and shed huge, shiny conkers which we quickly threaded onto some string and had glorious conker fights. (Fuck you Health and Safety). We played marbles, jacks and hopscotch in the street (Queens Avenue being a cul-de-sac) swapped 'fag' cards as they were known then, and traded marbles. Jerry Bean - who lived next door, made intricate model aeroplanes out of balsa wood when he wasn't doing homework (his parents were both teachers at the secondary school in West Byfleet, his mother taught needlework, and his father was head master, so when it came to doing his homework, Jerry was between a rock and a hard place) and having passed the eleven plus went to Woking Grammer School and eventually became a doctor.

At the road end of the Avenue was the main road leading to West Byfleet to the right, and Old Byfleet to the left, which was bordered by a small wood, in which was contained an old house whose occupants rarely revealed themselves; and a very mysterious house at it's far corner; 'Lake House'. Surrounded as it was by dank, stagnant water, a canopy from trees bent with age and exhaustion, excluding all light and defying the sun, it was frequently the subject of my childish imagination. Bulrushes grew around the edge of the lake; water lilies struggled to survive; the stench of dampness and decay filled the dense air, and I found myself irresistibly drawn to it's shadowy interior. I was in thrall to its magic; even as a young child, I intuited the knowledge contained in darkness.

When I look back on my childhood, I am very aware of the comfort I received from Nature, and the feel of the late 1940's and early 50's; the very occasional traffic in the village, although we did hit traffic jams when we returned from a hot Sunday spent on the beach at West Wittering; the scents of clover, and huge red roses, their velvety petals heavy with morning dew; wild narcissi; bluebells, and lily of the valley. The scent of burning leaves and wood smoke as the melancholy of Autumn hovered in the still air.

My favourite season was and remains Winter. Jack Frost leaving intricate patterns on the inside of my bedroom window; sheets frozen on the washing line as dusk descended; snowmen with coal noses and clay pipes between their arctic lips whose jolly daytime demeanour became slightly sinister as night began to fall. More than anything I loved snow; its ability to transform all that was familiar into a fairytale world of magic, mystery and overwhelming beauty. Icicles hung from guttering - whose ugliness was concealed by the weight of whiteness that lay along its length - and sparkled with jewel colours as they caught the sun. I exhaled white, frosty breath, imagining elegant holders containing forbidden cigarettes, (I was a reasonably precocious four-year old) and balls in ice palaces where all the guests wore white, and dined from plates of silver and crystal.

I came home from school one December afternoon. It was dusk and had snowed heavily all day. I ran down the garden to the cricket field, pushed open the gate, and entered a magic world. A blood red sun was setting in a darkening sky, the bare branches of the trees, whose unclothed vulnerability touched my soul, were rimmed with silver frost; the cricket pavilion, now the palace of the 'Snow Queen'; and the snow before me still in its virgin state. I wanted to stay in that world of beauty forever. I raised my four year old arms to the setting sun, (see what I mean about precocity?) and ran towards it. I believed I could fly; that I was a part of all that surrounded me, protected me, and claimed me as its own. So all in all I had a great affection for bucolic Byfleet.

I loved sweets, and when rationing finally ended in the mid 50's I feasted on rollos, maltesers, mars bars and smarties. Prior to the end of rationing my father came home one night with a parcel of black market butter and mars bars, and despite gorging myself to the point of nausea, butter and mars bars have remained life long pleasures. But what I loved most, and still do, was my bed. In the warmth of my horsehair mattress, covered by woollen blankets, I felt safe, secure and above all, warm. Despite my passion for the beauty of winter, I hated being cold; I liked to view the winter landscape from the chair beside the fire in the sitting room, (being from a lower middle class family, it was referred to as the 'lounge', a word I have come to loathe) before being turfed out by an adult. The fire was lit at 4 o'clock every afternoon; the only other heating in the house was provided by the boiler in the kitchen. It gave us hot water, and as central heating was unheard of in those days was the only room in the house that was constantly warm.

In order to satisfy my passion for sweets, I stole money from my foster mothers purse. Every Saturday morning I was sent to do the shopping. As her own child remained in bed reading comics, I found the unfairness of the situation untenable and derived great pleasure from the half crown I slipped into the pocket of my navy blue knickers. I also stole from the local sweetshop, and will never forget the day when, box of maltesers in hand, the owner, Mr Worsefold, suddenly appeared and said, 'would you mind putting those back please?' So great was my shame, that I never stole from a shop again. But I continued to haunt the sweetshops in the village. Large glass jars, containing lemonade powder, (a great favourite) sticky, black and white striped bulls-eyes, treacle toffees, pear drops, and Everton mints. I loved the dark interiors of the shops, each with its own smells and character. Lucas' was our nearest grocery shop; a brass bell rang as the door was opened, and counters lined three sides of it's large interior. On the left was the slicer, where bacon, ham and gammon were sliced; on the right, the cheese cutter where delicious, crumbly, chedder was cut with a wire before being wrapped in greaseproof paper and popped into a brown paper bag. Mrs Lucas, at the counter in the centre, sold broken biscuits for a penny per quarter pound and was very popular with the village children.

Opposite Lucas' was the War Memorial, where the names of dead men who had fought in the 1st and 2nd world wars were inscribed on a brass plaque and where wreaths of poppies were laid each memorial day. I found that ceremony very moving, and still do. I always place coins in the collecting boxes today in tribute to those brave, gallant young men who gave their lives for King and country, and endured inhuman suffering before falling foul of a sniper's bullet, or an exploding shell. Those who survived and returned home, were usually so emotionally and spiritually damaged by their experiences that they never spoke of them; and fought their demons in nightmares of unspeakable horror. They lived for decades with these grotesque burdens. Ah... what we do to our men.

The architecture in Byfleet was eclectic to say the least. Our house was built in the 1930's as were a number of the bungalows that filled the streets nearby. But there were also Edwardian and Victorian villa's, not large, but generating a sense of history and past lives; lives lived not so very differently to our own. A generous supply of council houses for those unable to imagine the possibility of owning their own home, but able to afford the modest rental required by their landlord.

My best friend Angie, lived in a two up, two down, late Victorian workman's cottage. It had a small scullery built onto it, an outside privy and no hot water. Her mother having died, and her father having disappeared, Angie, as a small child was sent to live with Gran, Uncle Fred and Auntie Glad. Of the two bedrooms upstairs, one on either side of the rather steep staircase, Uncle Fred and Auntie Glad, occupied the left, and Angie and Gran the - identical - one on the right.

Fred had lost part of his right arm, leaving him with a hook to replace his hand, the remainder encased by a brown leather support strap. Auntie Glad was tall, rather imposing and wore a rigid helmet of permed, grey curls. Gran was tiny, with soft white hair, a beaming smile, and kind eyes which peered endearingly through her pink national health spectacles. Both Angie and I adored her. Thank God Ange did have Gran. She was the one ray of light in an otherwise bleak childhood.

But I loved the cottage. There was a butlers sink in the scullery, and a small wooden table. On the wall next to the door was a mirror, and on Sunday afternoons Ange and I would jostle for position as we prepared ourselves for the ritual of going into Woking to see a film. Such excitement! Ange would take out her rollers, backcomb her blond hair vigorously, bring kiss curls to her cheeks, smooth the top, and then spray with laquer from a pink plastic bottle. Blue eyeshadow was applied, liquid eyeliner, black mascara, Max Factor powder and pink lipstick! This was in the late 50's, when Brigitte Bardot claimed the world stage, and when Ange put on her black and grey pinstriped suit with the short skirt and box jacket, and climbed into her white stiletto heels with the slightly extended points there was no-one to touch her. Ange, you looked awesome!