When I was about 5 or 6, back in the 1970s, one of our neighbours had survived Auschwitz. I'd noticed the number tattooed on his arm and asked him about it. At the time, he told me that he would talk to my parents first before explaining it to me. The next time I saw him, he told me the basic outline of what had happened and what he had experienced.
It made a hell of an impression on me, and I think it was one of the fundamental influences on my views on racism and prejudice. That someone could do such things to my 'Uncle John' just because he came from a particular background was beyond my comprehension.
On a lighter note, I met up with an old friend of mine this evening for a drink. It's the first time I've seen him for about 9 or 10 years. Somehow, we just lost touch. I tracked his details down and dropped him an email out of the blue last week to suggest meeting up. It was lovely, as if the last few years - which had been difficult for both of us in some ways - just hadn't slipped by. We just dropped back into easy chit-chat as if it had only been a few weeks since we last saw one another.
It was lovely. Meeting a friend you thought you might never see again is wonderful, isn't it?
