I was 15 and desperate to escape small-town England. But all the champagne and roquefort in the world couldn’t make up for the hurt I caused the family I left behind
It’s hard for me to pinpoint the exact age when I learned the lesson that family must come first at this time of year. But my best guess is December 1988, when I would have been 15 years old. There is some dispute in my family about the age I was at the time and whether this event happened in quite the way I remember it. But I have a clear picture of it in my mind.
It was the Christmas before my GCSEs and, being a swot, perfectionist and all-round smartarse, I was completely obsessed with acing them. These exams represented – or so I believed – the passport out of the small town in Somerset where I grew up and a one-way ticket to an exciting independent adult life. (Spoiler alert: I’m still searching for this.)