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An incident from my youth, circa 1957, when I was five years old.
Holding my mothers hand and walking towards Brighton train station I wrenched
free of her grasp and ran up the steps of a Georgian mansion screaming,
at the top of my voice, "This is where I live!" I kept banging
on the door furiously until it was opened and then demanded to be let in;
pushing past an elderly gentleman I ran upstairs and shouted the place down
because my Rocking horse,which was there, was broken.
I had never visited Brighton before that day and my parents apologies are still ringing in my ears.
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