In the 60s, sex was a taboo subject in my home. I knew nothing of the birds and bees and had to rely on my sister Cal, three years older, to confirm that I had started my period in 1971. I told my mum, Margaret, then 37, that Cal had given me a sanitary towel and belt (yes, remember those?) to wear. I can recall Mum’s words well. ‘Right young lady, you had better steer clear of boys as we don’t want any unwanted babies in this house. Are you listening, young lady? If you kiss a boy you’ll end up pregnant!’ she declared.
And that was that. I
