Another day. Another book. Another example of working-class luck.
Guess what I’m reading now...
‘Looking back, I can see I was a lucky little girl who had a very happy childhood. We never had much money left over from essentials, and we didn’t have one of the highly prized two-up, two-down terraced houses. Me mam would have killed to have one of those, because living in the flat meant that we didn’t have our own front door. We either had to come in through the barber’s shop, which me mam hated doing, or when the shop was closed we came in through the back entry on William Moult Street.’
(well, it's another contemporary working-class woman who found success and fame through a particular personal talent, and with the assistance of a bit o' luck, of course.)
To cut a long story short: