Finally, I’ve started the sequel. YAH!! Hope to have it finished very early next year.
Originally posted on A Newbie's Journey into the Publishing World:
Until I got married and had my own family there was only ever my mother and me. I knew very little about my mother’s family or past because of her reluctance to talk about my father or her family in Jamaica. Consequently, growing up in Brighton, a seaside town on the south-east coast of England, I had a great sense of “not belonging” which for years caused me to feel insecure and become dysfunctional.
Although Mum couldn’t afford it she was adamant that I had a good education and so sent me to private Catholic convents and to pay for my education she worked as a cook in two restaurants.
I was not typical of the other girls in my school because I didn’t have their family status nor a proper home. My home was one small shabby, dreary room with basic furniture which had seen better days on the top floor of a four storey boarding house. Just outside the room on a small landing was a one ring gas stove for cooking which we shared with our neighbour, an Irish labourer, whose room was next door to us. Both the bathroom and toilet were on the first floor.