Mr Wogan’s soft Irish lilt echoed out of my radio like a gentle ripple, his evocative tones bringing me back to my childhood memories of the Emerald Isle.
He sounds just like my father did.
Things were different back then. Mammy stayed at home to look after her brood of nine (I was the oldest girl. Sister Mary they called me!), whilst daddy went out to sea to catch his wages. We were happy.
I didn’t grow up to mirror my mother, having given birth just once. My boy, the New York banker. My pride and joy!
Then came the untoward day known as 9/11.
This post is part of the 100 Word Challenge for Grown-Ups at The Head’s Office.
Photo credit: Danny McL