The last thing I remember my sister saying was that man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.
We were travelling north on our summer holiday. It was August. The sun was high in the blue sky, with only a few wisps of cloud. It was a nice change; it had rained all the previous week as we had prepared to drive from Glasgow to Inverness. Now we were heading up the side of Loch Lomond, my Dad singing along to the Eighties classics on the stereo.
I was gazing out over the fish scale water while Jo was practising her manifesto on me for when she got back to primary school. Most girls want to grow up to be a princess. Jo wanted to be the leader of the revolution.
The car swerved. We were tossed to one side and then back again.
My Dad swore, excusing his erratic driving.
Mum turned aro
