Showing posts from January, 2015

88 Herne Hill

As a student nurse I lived 'in' for a year but soon tired of institutional living.  In August 1985 my friend Carol Winsor, a physio student I had met on a summer camp some years previously, asked whether I would like to move out with her and her friends to a large house in Herne Hill - number 88. Some time after we were joined by my fellow student nurse Clare Franklin and my sister Anne Cooke.  It was a huge house with seven bedrooms, and two bathrooms, each with a gas Ascot heater that filled the bath in approximately 20 minutes.  There was no central heating or double glazing, lethal gas fires in each room and another Ascot over the butler sink in the kitchen.  There was a separate flat downstairs, inhabited by an old man called George who smoked about 40 woodbines a day and had a cough to match. Thankfully he never took advantage of the seven girls upstairs though he had access our quarters via the back door.  I wouldn't be happy for my daughter living in similar arrang…