In the colonies, where blonde women were home-makers and fully able to bottle the fruit growing on their abundant trees in their lush gardens, rituals were important. Among these was the absurdity of the full turkey-and-all-the-trimmings Christmas in sweltering summer heat, but smaller rituals like birthday parties were also important and a good opportunity for these women to demonstrate to other mothers their organisational and confectionary skills.

I was born on 2 November 1955 in the little hospital in Gwanda in what was then Southern Rhodesia. If you think Gwanda is the middle of nowhere, think again. At around the time of the transition of Rhodesia to Zimbabwe in 1980, the census estimated that the population of Gwanda was smaller than 5 000 souls. Nevertheless, to our family it was a big centre to West Nicholson (now Tshabezi), where my father worked as a chemist at the corned beef factory. There was no hospital in West Nic, so I was delivered by Dr Osborne in Gwanda. When I was six weeks old we moved to Salisbury and the world of cement.

The day I was born was so hot that the mercury in one of the thermometers at the hospital burst. As had been the case with Jenny's birth three and a half years earlier, Elsie was far away from her own mother and her family, in labour at the edge of the known world. There was a major advantage to my having been born on 2 November, though. In the Rhodesian colony, the celebration of Guy Fawkes night on 5 November was a big deal, and every year we learned in school about gunpowder, treason and plot. For some years, my birthday party was celebrated as part of the communal Guy Fawkes fireworks and bonfire night celebrations involving all the white employees of the cement works. I loved it. Nothing could be better than a party in the hot Rhodesian night with a bonfire and a fireworks display; and every boy who came to my party got his own set of sparklers and jumping jacks to light. The lights and the danger of having to stand back while brave dads (my dad included) lit the fuses on rockets jammed into used cold-drink bottles were exciting, and made for very successful birthday parties for this rather poorly socialised young fellow.