My mother was brought up in Burma and when we were children, she often regaled us with tales of her life there. To me, the most interesting stories involved my grandfather, who was a mounted policeman in Rangoon. His horse was a black mare called Rosie and there was a strong bond between them. Often, after finishing his days work, my grandfather would go to the men’s club and after downing a few too many whiskeys he would mount his horse and go home. Rosie knew the way and always got him home safe and sound. My grandfather would arrive home, sat ramrod straight in the saddle, with his head on his chest, snoring. He wept like a baby when that horse died. When war began my grandfather returned to this country, though not to his native Lancashire. Sadly, he died before I was born, but his memory lives on.