It was a memorable view, out of my old bedroom window. I can picture it now, decades later, like a watercolour imprinted across my mind.

Behind the back fence, a hill climbed precipitously. It was a semi-wild space, basically scrubland, with trees and shrubs that doubled up as secret dens and climbing frames for curious limbs and bright-eyed explorers.

To the right, in the distance, loomed the cooling towers of Agecroft power station: a column of solemn sentinels belching white plumes of smoke that slowly rose and melded into clouds, before drifting beyond the window frame. I still remember how mysterious and brooding those chimneys seemed.

In the afternoon before the Passover seder, in anticipation of the long night of storytelling, singing and food, my family would always take a rest. It wasn’t a formal tradition, just what my family did. But what child likes to rest? I didn’t want to rest. So boring! Passover seder was far too exciting for that.

Still, I would try and lie quietly on my bed, and stare out the window, contemplating the hill outside: the dens to be built, the traps to lay for would-be invaders. Or imagine the smoke stacks as mighty stone giants, marauding the earth. Eventually though, my patience would wane, and I’d tiptoe downstairs – to the kitchen, where everything happened. View Post