IN 1975, JUST before my sixteenth birthday, I read in the summer issue of Dolly magazine that everyone needed some ‘me’ time. This sounded grown-up, enticing. The editor suggested checking into a hotel to unwind.

I’m not sure I knew the difference between a hotel, a motel and a pub, but there was a place near us with a pool and a shady garden, so I guessed that it qualified. I saved my pocket money and after-school earnings and announced to Mum that I wanted to book in. She hesitated, but then agreed – on the proviso that I didn’t leave the grounds. She made the booking, dropped me off with an overnight bag borrowed from my grandmother, and I entered the world of adulthood.