I went abroad for the first time when I was twelve.
We'd been going to Ireland every year since I'd been born, but Ireland didn't count as abroad. It was much nearer than London, or Bristol or Newcastle or Edinburgh for that matter, and was regarded simply as an extension of home. But in my second year at the Brothers' school we went on a school trip to proper abroad. To our twin town.
To Stuttgart.
I've never really approved of the idea of twinning, because places are invariably matched with other places just like them. So if you live in, say, a stunningly beautiful medieval town with a perfectly preserved castle, or a glamorous seaside resort with a fishing harbour and miles of sandy beach, then you'll be twinned with your exquisite European equivalent. And if you live in Warrington, or St Helens, then you'll be twinned with another industrial casualty.
Like Stuttgart.
So having spent the first dozen years of my life surrounded by wireworks, glass factories and chemical plants, I found myself transported to a place where the high spot of the visit was a trip to a ball-bearing factory. To make matters worse, I contracted hepatitis. I lost a stone in a week and turned yellow, which is quite interesting when you've twelve. So the doctor arrived -- a rather severe-looking elderly German gentleman in wire-framed glasses: not the most reassuring sight in the world when you've spent the last term doing a project on Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death.
I'd led a sheltered life till this point, and so far was unaware of the existence of suppositories. The news came as a terrible shock. The doctor explained in schoolboy German what had to be done; when my custard-coloured eyes glazed over in disbelief, he mimed it, but it was still difficult to comprehend.
