During my (eternal) paper sorting just came across a letter from Dad, written when he was the age I am now. They had been out to Australia for a few months and were back in England. In it was a kindly lecture about how, for me, the lead up to anything, Christmas, work, love or life has always been more exciting than the actual event by which time I was emotionally drained and it rarely met expectations. I am still the same although these days I know what to expect and can temper it to a point.

We like to think our parents didn’t understand us, but I suspect they understood too well and we didn’t, as in ny case.
I have all our letters now both parents have passed away and my sister passed their collection of my letters back to me.
This has been a timely lesson.
Perhaps a museum would be interested in the life of an over-expectant baby-boomer ‘Ten Pound Pom’  from the early 1970’s? Ive already written memoirs of my early life as yet unpublished.

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