It’s more than half a century since I first set foot in Heathrow from Sydney, in my mid-20s, clutching my 14-month-old baby in one hand and what little remained of my luggage in the other. My large suitcase, stuffed with books and clothes, had vanished at a stopover at Colombo airport in Sri Lanka, where I narrowly avoided arrest as my infant son had startlingly managed to push an empty trolley into the glass duty-free shop, smashing part of it. I was surrounded by a hubbub of people and noise, and one man in khaki uniform who kept sidling up to me saying quietly, “Get on to the plane.” Slowly, I separated myself from those surrounding me and did just that. Twelve hours later, I landed in London, exhausted and bewildered.
Within a year, I had moved into my four-storey house in Highbury, north London, which has been my one and only home for more than 50 years. However, during those years it has also been a commune, a feminist stronghold, a frequent meeting house. Here people have lived and loved, experimenting with new ways of relating, leading me into a life and politics that have remained remarkably consistent ever since.
