Maiden Aunts were always interesting. Your parents would pack you off to them, with the parting admonition don’t upset auntie, for a few days during the summer holidays, and you would have a great time – most of which was conducted under censorship administered with a finger to the lips accompanied by whatever you do, don’t tell your Mum. They always sent you a card on your birthday or at Christmas with ‘a little something’ inside, and you always sent them a postcard selected by your parents with a boring view of whatever Godforsaken coastal village you happened to be staying at that year.
Then came adolescence and the personal selection of a saucy holiday postcard about an actress and a bishop, followed by the frosty reception you received from her at the next family gathering months later. Well, if your parents had spoken about her once being an actress and the young admirer whose parents considered her ‘below them’ who became a bishop, you would have known not to send that particular card, wouldn’t you?