To Live... Is the greatest gift

Surrey, Sir Harry, and the Christmas Fairy — Polished Version

As a child, “home” could be anywhere in the world. But the places we always returned to — the places we called home — were in Surrey: Cheam and Epsom. Our house in Epsom was roughly two miles from the famous racecourse. It was always amusing, and a little unsettling, that whenever we returned from our travels, it was a toss‑up which house we’d stay in — Cheam or Epsom.

The Epsom house had a massive basement stuffed full of every game, board game, and toy imaginable. We had a cinema where we could get snacks and watch films, a games room, and a music room. Despite the impressive lifestyle, my brothers and I were unspoilt.

We had lived in Cheam before moving to Epsom. One of our neighbours was the adorable Sir Harry Secombe, his wife Myra, their three children, and their five boxer dogs — the curse of the neighbourhood. Sir Harry’s children were older than me. One day, I was walking past their garden fence when the dogs began barking aggressively, as usual. Two of them had dug a hole under the fence, and suddenly two snarling heads appeared inches from my feet. I screamed. Sir Harry heard me and rushed out to console me.

I had no idea he was famous. No idea he had played Mr Bumble in Oliver! No idea that this would be the start of a friendship between Sir Harry, his wife, and my parents that would last for years, even after we moved away.

Summer in Surrey meant cricket — that rather boring game where bowlers try to hit the wickets and batsmen run back and forth. Everyone went to the Surrey matches. Celebrities turned up in force to cheer on their teams. During the interval of every match, Sir Harry would come to collect me from the reserved spectator seats. He’d take my hand, holding a white charity bucket in the other.

“Now, Elizabeth, remember — you are a celebrity and charity representative, so let everyone see your adorable smile.”

And so I did, every single match. I loved that man. Not quite old enough to be the grandfather I never had, but old enough to be my much‑loved friend.

My beloved father never touched alcohol. His mother, whom I never met, had allegedly been a heavy drinker. I will never understand why, given his history, he decided to invest in a fully stocked bar in our sprawling lounge. He collected miniature whisky bottles from around the world and was immensely proud of his collection. My parents threw parties when my brothers and I were safely tucked up in bed at the other side of the house.

Their guest lists included politicians and celebrities. My father and his brother played significant roles in the Labour Party in our part of Surrey, so the great, the good, and the slightly dubious were happy to attend. I will never forget the bronze ornament John Prescott and his wife presented my parents for the garden. I don’t recall it ever making it outside.

I rarely heard the parties — my bedroom was on the far side of the house. I knew they threw Christmas parties too. One Christmas Eve, when I was eight, I lay in bed looking up at the high window above me, watching the full moon shine down. I must have nodded off. I don’t know what woke me, but when I opened my eyes, I thought I saw a fairy sitting beside me.

I closed my eyes tightly, convinced I was dreaming. When I opened them again, blinking several times, the fairy was still there.

She had long black hair, like my mother — but it wasn’t my mother. This fairy had pale blue wings, a shiny blue tiara, and a wand that twinkled at the tip. She smelled beautiful — a scent I’ve never smelled before or since. She gently pushed a strand of my wild red hair from my face.

“Stay there, darling. All is alright,” she whispered.

She kissed the top of my head. “Go back to sleep. When you wake, Father Christmas will have left you everything you wished for.”

I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until morning. And indeed, all my dreams had come true.

After opening my presents, I told my mother about the fairy. She smiled and kissed me. “You were very lucky to have that fairy come and see you.”

Celebrities and politicians were part of life — but magical fairies certainly weren’t.

Several years passed. My parents loved travelling — a few months here, a year there. My education was chaotic, something I always regretted. We returned to the UK when my parents bumped into an old friend at an event in some castle somewhere. I recognised the woman immediately — my fairy, minus wings.

She held out her hand and kissed my cheek. “Hello, Elizabeth,” she smiled. “My name is Elizabeth too.”

And that is the story of my Christmas Fairy — also known as Elizabeth Taylor.

My poor father was a disastrous businessman. Everyone loved him, but as a boss he was a nightmare. His generosity was his downfall time and again. He started ventures that were non‑runners and paid workers more than expected. That was him through and through — my hero, who had zero common sense.

Everyone loved my father. Everyone saw he was a genuinely good, decent, caring man. My hero. My friend. Flawed, yes. He unintentionally hurt me, yes. But nothing — absolutely nothing — could distract from the wonderful, funny, sometimes ridiculous, vulnerable man I called Daddy.

No matter where we went in the world, it was always an adventure — and always, always an honour to have lived like that.