I must have been six.  I had been given an adventure story book with colour illustrations.  I learnt to read late, and I liked to involve my mother in the reading process as much as possible - although she was usually too busy and didn't believe in 'spoiling' me.

Anyway, the day I'm remembering I was sprawled on the floor reading on my own.  It was quite hard going reading much at a time on my own.  The previous night, while she put me to bed, I'd told the Dutch au pair the exciting story - and maybe or maybe not let slip I was bit frightened about the picture I'd peaked at on the next page.  Or perhaps there was no picture - I imagined it from the words I read the next day.

Because, that afternoon I read in the book about a  fire at sea.  Everyone had to abandon ship.

I freaked with fear.  I can truly remember the pit in my stomach, which has never felt as huge in all the years since.  I felt dizzy, I was terrified.

My mother didn't seem to notice.

After a while, I went over to her, frankly hoping for some comfort, an assurance that the story would have  happy ending, something like that.  Most of all I wanted a cuddle.  "I'm not going to finish that book" I told my mum, trying to explain how frightened I felt..

"I'm sure when you grow up, Alec." As far as I could tell, my mother saw the chief objective of childhood was to be no longer a child. "When you grow up a bit you will be able to fiinsh the story and appreciate it more."

Sixty years later, my throat still tightens when I remember that burning ship, imagine the sailors jumping...

Perhaps I have yet to grow up