The home I grew up in had, like Michael Rosen’s, a geyser over the bath (My shirts reeked of onions; my father hated the ‘phoney Tudor windows’. That flat will always mean home, 24 December). Only my mother was brave enough to light it, as it made explosive noises when exposed to flame. That was in the bathroom, the only room in the flat without a coal fire. Our flat was on the top floor of a corner house in Kingly Street, behind Liberty in Regent Street, London, and once had clearly been the servants’ quarters of a great house.
It had high windows and many rooms, and the kitchen had a huge built-in dresser, an enormous sink and a dumb waiter. In front of the kitchen range was a large sofa, and there was a big table at which my mother and aunt sat and sewed jackets for Savile Row firms, and I later did my homework.
