I’m often the victim of a terrible misunderstanding: people who hear me talk think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, growing up in some swanky pile where we spoke French at teatime while Grandma played Bach on the harpsichord.
I did not. Like many people, I’m an invention. My life began in Southgate, and I got cracking on transforming myself very early. My vowels travelled from Amy Winehouse to Nancy Mitford by the time I was five. It wasn’t an aspiration to be a different class, you understand, just a desire to be anywhere else.
