"I didn't ask to come here," said a bad tempered psychiatrist at Southmead hospital. They'd sent him to see me because I kept crying. Well, I hadn't asked him to come and wasn't particularly pleased to see him either. I cried a lot in those days and didn't think it was cause for calling in the mind doctor. I'd just had a baby and I don't think I'd quite believed in it till then. Birds must have the same shock when a fully formed chick pecks itself out of an egg that had only ever required sitting upon and nothing else. The pregnancy had seemed enough to be going on with, but the pregnancy was over and the baby was for life. "Where's home?" Home was a flat in St. Paul's, which didn't impress him. It didn't impress me. We'd been turned out of our flat overlooking St. Andrew's park on account of my pregnancy and it being discovered that Charlie, my new husband, worked on a building site and went to work in a donkey jacket with 'Cubitts' written on the back. Writing on clothes hadn't reached St. Andrew's park. "I told you I worked on the buildings," said Charlie. "You said you were working on the new medical centre, I thought you were a junior doctor," said Mr. Bools, our landlord. He'd been fooled, though not intentionally, by Charlie's public school accent which was still evident then. He was nineteen and looked more student than builder's labourer. His accent was all he had to show for an independent education. Well, there were five O-levels, which were more than I had and like five pounds went further then, but not in this case as we hadn't got beyond St. Paul's. Not quite the St. Paul's of today, the old Irish (a couple lived downstairs) hadn't quite moved out or died out and the young blacks were only just making themselves at home among the St. Andrew's Park rejects. About the Author Elaine Eveleigh has been writing for a long time, mostly narrative poetry and short stories, the stories were published in Punch, a famous, but now extinct magazine and broadcast on Radio Three. All very much once up a time. More recently Elaine tried my hand at playwriting and had amateur productions done at local venues. She has lived all her life, sixty six years so far on a hill in Somerset but only three miles from Bristol City.