18 APRIL 2015 –

                Every girl thinks of her Dad as a hero, in one way or the other.  The fact that he may provide a roof over one's head, or an automobile, or, or even such basics as food and water adds up to a wonderful man.  And his ability to sweep our Mum off her feet goes without saying.

            But our Dad's mates were there in Normandy – many more than had ever visited the Estate, and amongst them a surprising number of Victoria Cross recipients.  In this way, they were like Dad.  But many of them were missing body parts.  They had lost them in battle.

            These men were heroes, every one, and in every sense of the word.  Not all of them had been knighted, but they all had chests full of medals – and they all treated our Dad like a brother.

Then came the revelation – our Dad could have been killed.  We might never have been born.  

            Heroes were familiar to me – though of course very un-common.  Later, when I went to school, I lernt a disturbing fact.  Not every father is a hero.  Just as not every father is a Knight.  To say, "You could have knocked me over with a feather" seems simplistic – but you could have. 

            Dad really was special.  And it thrilled me to learn that genetically I was half him.  (I lernt the word "genetically" at age seven.  Remember, DNA was discovered by Watson & Crick in 1953 – and they were both British ...)  I have to say I never felt out of place as a youth.

            But back to D-Day.  We had taken a huge hovercraft ferry across the Channel from Dover to Calais (remember, this was long before the Chuunel).  We had actually arrived on 4 June, and after the morning ceremonies in France. we took the same ferry back to the UK.

            That was when I discovered just how privileged we really were.  After a quick stop at home, we were ushered up to London and past the crowds into Buckingham Palace.  There, Dad and his mates were received by Her Majesty the Queen herself, as if they were all old friends. 

            I was taken aside and told that during the War, her Majesty had served as a Military lorry driver and mechanic.  As far as she was concerned, these were the very men who had made the Allied Victory possible.  Without them, we would not be free – and she could not be Queen.

            These memories remained as I grew and matured and lernt the burdens of Nobility, as well as the privileges.  I noticed that rich "commoners" certainly seemed to enjoy life as much as I did.  We went to the same schools, attended the same parties, etc.  But there was a difference.

            This was made most clear to me during my 18^th year.  Between my sister's wedding and my attending University, there came a ceremony to be endured.  Every "noble" girl of my age would be formally presented at Court.  This was what the Americans called a "Cotillion".

            A "coming-out party" is another name for it.  Before we were presented to Prince Charles (of all people), we were just silly adolescent girls.  Afterwards, in our white gowns and long gloves, we were "suitable marriage material" for any unmarried male found in Burke's Peerage.

            Oh joy, I thought.  Leave me out of it.  Just overlook my position and my DNA ...