I come from a family who relish a blank page.
Father, brother, cousins, grandparents, great-grandparents, writers all. The tap tapping of a typewriter was a constant background noise during my childhood.
A couple of years ago I started to receive emails relating to my mother, the journalist Anne Scott-James. They came from far afield, writers who had discovered her name and wanted to know more about her. I thought that if anyone should offer up an opinion then surely it should be me. After all, I had spent a lifetime studying the subject.
Anne forged a path for women journalists, leaving Oxford University after only two years to look for work. She was very clever, very tall and a beauty.
The best way to understand Anne is to read her…
