There really is nothing one can do about being born. The choice of birthplace is up to others, but the place of one’s birth is something that has to be lived with for a lifetime. Balham it was, like it or not. So, what’s wrong with Balham – ‘Gateway to the South’? Poor old Balham can’t help it, but when I was born towards the end of December 1937, you could say that it was somewhere you passed by quickly, possibly even going South, perhaps to Brighton, a part of southern London that had no particular character and definitely a place with no social status; today to live in Balham or Clapham next door conveys a certain sense of achievement by its residents, at least by those on the property ladder. Semi-fashionable for some now, no doubt, but in 1937 its only claim to fame in so far as I was concerned was that amongst its various establishments, the nursing home selected for my mother by my father, a surgeon and physician from nearby Wimbledon, was somewhere that took pride of place when it came to maternity business. I can’t even recall its name; it would be interesting to see if it still survives, but I doubt it. Maternity these days is all to do with rather large hospitals. No, the real problem with Balham is that, in broad terms, it is London, England and that is to my eternal regret because, as a Scot, I really would have liked to have been born in Scotland. Berwickshire would have been ideal, for that is where my grandfather and all before him were born, but Edinburgh, my father’s home city, would have passed the test as an alternative.