My childhood had been idyllic, spent in our home on the outskirts of London with three wonderful siblings. The children of a Polish immigrant and British mother with Lithuanian roots, there was a gentle softness in our world, enhanced by a tinge of European sensitivity. We were shaped by innocent pursuits, playing tennis in our fairytale garden and hide and seek in our adored house. Our world was beautiful; full of love and security.

Every Friday night we would come together as a family, and eat plentiful food from our parents’ heritage: chicken soup, gefilte fish and more. I didn’t appreciate these abundant dinners. They were forced upon me, along with the strict Jewish rules we were bound by. From sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday, we were not allowed to write, paint or drive. We were never allowed out on a Saturday night, until we had spotted three stars in the sky. So I had nothing to do but play tennis, read or entertain people who visited us - and many did come.

In hindsight, it wasn’t so bad at all. In fact, it was lovely. But at the time, it felt endlessly restrictive. I felt chained by the rules placed on me by my strict, traditional family; I craved something more. I had a sense of curiosity deep within me, one of spontaneity and bravery that I was yearning to explore.