When I finally went to Ireland, I had to go. It was 1993. My father was finally too old to travel alone, and he asked me to take him home. When an old man asks you to take him home, you have to do it.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
When my mother died, I fell apart. My father wanted to control me. As a consequence, I ran away to America.
You know, my parents had a restaurant. And I left home, actually, in 1949, when I was 13 years old, to go into apprenticeship. And actually when I left home, home was a restaurant - like I said, my mother was a chef. So I can't remember any time in my life, from age 5, 6, that I wasn't in a kitchen.
When I was 17, I decided I was going to leave home.
When my father died, I was living in England. It was very traumatic that he died when I was away.
When I was four, my mother insisted I get out of the car and find my own way home. Although I got lost, I did find my way home. It taught me the value of independence at an early age.
Mum and Dad split up when I was nine. We upped and moved from London to Sussex, and suddenly I went from an urban life to nothing in the countryside - with a new father and new life.
In 1965, I was 11 and in my last year at Junior school. I was living with my mum and older sister in a rented flat in south London - my parents had separated when I was five and got divorced a couple of years later, which was unusual at the time. My dad was working abroad, and I hadn't seen him for several years.
When my mother had four girls, and she could tell her marriage was falling apart, she went back to college and got her degree in music and education.
A few years ago, I decided I wanted to be home with my family.
I came to Ireland 20 years ago as a student, hitch-hiking round for a week and staying in Dublin.