We left London at the end of July 1952. I was aged nine years and three months. After an hour of us kids performing our expected roles, repeatedly asking in a whine from the back seat whether or not we were there yet, we parked outside our new home. I noted the single-storey eatery come comfort stop next door appeared more than a little American in style, like the diners cropping up on lonely highways in movies, only much larger than any I'd seen. The land too, coming with the property, I could only describe as being vast and then some. Brightly lit up in pink and blue neon strip lighting, complete with a picture of a chubby tart's face winking down saucily at the forecourt, the business went by the name of Fat Sheila's. Well, at least that gave us kids the first laugh in a long time!