The world into which I was born no longer exists, of course. I’ve been around for almost half a century, so it was inevitable. My parents — one French, raised largely in Algeria; the other Canadian, from Toronto — were born in the Depression and grew up during the Second World War, a time of uncertainty and restraint that marked them all their lives.
Although our household lacked for nothing, my parents wasted nothing. My mum taught us to repair moth holes in sweaters and to hem skirts; she meticulously ironed all our clothes, and also pillowcases, nightgowns, and knickers, not…
