Funny how one’s own mind can feel so detached and alien, almost hostile at times like some menacing crafty interloper; so familiar and yet so eerily uneasy at the same time.
All my life I had been convinced that this tiny Marian medal, which apparently I sported when my new foster family first laid eyes on me on the doorstep of that self built house in Canley Heights, had been pinned to my jumper by my natural mother.
I suppose I wanted to believe she had sent me off into the big bad world with Our Mother – while of course she herself would have sadly suspected she wouldn’t be seeing me ever again.
Years later, in a crowded fragrant Balmain pub I had a chance to ask her in person. She studied the little trinket for a few moments, then said, “No, I’ve never seen this.”
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THE RICHARD OF OZ 
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