I lived all my life thinking the reason I was in care was because I was naughty. Because I was breaking and entering, pickpocketing, vandalism. I wasn't party to any social workers' reports.
I don't even like sitting in a taxi or on the tube when I've got a nicely ironed shirt on - I can feel the creases starting. I was taught to iron in the children's home I lived in - along with mopping, sweeping, and washing up. If you iron a shirt in order - collar, cuffs, yoke, sleeves and then body - it comes out all neat and gorgeous.
I went to a Turkish hairdresser, and they burned the hair off my ears with a lit taper. They just put the burning candle near your ears and you hear the hair being burned away. And the smell - urggh!
Quite often, we're swamped with friends. My house is known as Hotel Morrissey, which is quite handy whenever I need dog-sitters for Tiggy. She's my tiny little rescue dog, the size of both of my feet put together.
