The of my mother, Leila, exists only in photographs. I remember first seeing them as a small boy in the 1980s, tucked away in drawers in the sitting room of our home.They thrilled me: snapshots of a lost world of excitement and glamour. Here was my mother in a black cocktail dress, laughing at a high-society event, surrounded by friends in dresses and Savile Row suits.There she stood with her fellow debutantes, some sporting quiveringly fashionable beehive hairstyles; or picnicking with a male friend, unmarried and ‘unaccompanied’. Above all, in almost every photo, I could see her long hair, cascading freely round her shoulders.
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