When I was about ten, my mum used to send me off to the local synagogue to join-in with the choir practice. For a Jewish mother to see her son on a Saturday, singing with other little boys, on the bimah, dressed in scratchy shirt and tie is something special.
I hated the choir.
I couldn’t sing and even though Revered Levy* (an absolutely incredible man), the cantor, gave us Kit-Kats (when they were in-favour with the Manchester Beth-Din), I never liked going.
On this particular Thursday, my brother Lloyd drove down from Dundee where he had just qualified as a doctor. He had my dad’s old Opel Kadett. He and mum thought they would pick me up afterwards, to save me the 20 minute 1980’s walk home.
I wasn’t there. In fact, I hadn’t been for weeks. I had taken my choir sessions and gone off to the local park, where I would spend the hour wandering the woods, looking for wildlife, dreaming of Action Man and other phantasmagoria.
It was a funny time.
*Please watch the video of Reverend Levy on this link.