I was five years old and sitting in class when the teacher asked each of us 
to stand up in turn and describe our parent's wedding day. No problem 
with that. Each child gave the usual account of white dresses, bridesmaids, 
flowers and wedding cakes.
	"And you Derek. Tell us about your parent's wedding day."
	I shot to my feet. It wasn't often I was asked a question I knew the 
answer to. 
	"My mum and dad were married in Italy. It was very hot. The 
church was big and my mum wore a parachute." The teacher was 
confused even before I continued with my final, shocking revelation.
	"After the wedding, a policemen came and took my dad to 
prison." It was the only time I had ever known my teacher lost for words.
	"I'm sure that can't be right Derek," she said with great certainty. I 
was devastated. At last I had given an answer I knew was correct but no 
one believed me. Life can be tough for a five year old.
	"Honest Miss! That's what happened!" She obviously thought it 
best not to probe further and so moved quickly on to the next child. 
	I just couldn't understand why teacher hadn't believed me, so that 
night I told my parents what had happened. My father, who is one of the 
most honourable men that ever lived, was mortified at the possibility that 
it would soon be all around the school that poor young Derek came from 
a criminal fraternity. What I had said was true but far from being 
something to be ashamed of, my father's imprisonment and the 
subsequent outcome of his action turned out to be one of his greatest 
moments.
	My parents met in Milan where my father was stationed at the 
end of the Second World War. Like many soldiers at that time, he fell in 
love with a local girl and they wanted to marry as soon as possible. The 
British Army was happy to allow it's soldiers to marry but permission 
was being withheld in his regiment by a power hungry captain because 
every man that married and returned to England was one less under his 
command and he couldn't stand to see his little empire crumbling.
	Totally out of character, my father went ahead and married 
without permission. They had a lovely wedding in Milan and my mother, 
being a gifted dressmaker managed to make a beautiful dress out of an 
old parachute. At the tender age of five it was inconceivable that anyone 
could make a real wedding dress out of a parachute so I naturally 
assumed that all she had done was cut a hole in the top and worn it over 
her head like a tent. 
	Shortly after the ceremony had finished and the photos were 
taken, the Military Police arrived and took my father to prison where he 
shared a cell with two murderers. When the Company Commander 
found out what had happened he hit the roof and ordered a full inquiry. 
The outcome was that within a few days all the men were free to marry 
and the hated Captain was disgraced. My father was a hero, though he 
still had to spend a week in prison because rules is rules. 
	So there you have the main pattern of my life… nothing is ever 
simple. Until that day I honestly believed it was normal that at the end of 
every wedding the bridegroom was taken to prison.
	Another incident which will help to give you an early insight into
what is to come was in secondary school, whilst seated at my 
very first French lesson. Every other year, I went to Italy with my family 
to visit our relatives and the one big problem we always had was getting 
through France at a time when there was far less English spoken abroad 
than there is now. My father never seemed to understand that French was 
a different language to Italian so he always pushed my poor mother into 
facing the unforgiving French tongue. I was overjoyed that I was going 
to learn French and I spent the whole of the first lesson daydreaming 
about our next trip through France when I would be the family saviour. 
We would go into restaurants and I would call the waiter over and order 
in fluent French while my family stood back and watched with 
amazement and pride.
	My second lesson took me daydreaming through little French 
towns, talking and laughing with the locals. After three months of 
daydreaming my way through lessons I was devastated one day when the 
boy next to me stood up and spoke a painfully long sentence in fluent 
French to the teacher. I didn't have a clue what he was saying and I 
looked at him as if he had been beamed from a distant solar system. I 
realised immediately that it was too late for me to catch up on all that my 
daydreaming had caused me to miss and so that was the end of my career 
as a linguist. During the remainder of my French lessons I had to return 
to my old dream of being the first person to captain England in football, 
cricket and fishing.
	Dreaming came as natural to me as breathing. It is a shame 
however that dreamers are generally looked down on by society, as 
despite the richness of our language there is only one word for two 
completely different kinds of dreamer. The first is what 
I would call the Passive Dreamer. This describes the majority of 
dreamers who sit on their backsides dreaming of things they want but 
doing very little to follow those dreams. Maybe they deserve society's 
derision. The other kind and worthy of far more support is the Active 
Dreamer... someone who devotes their entire life to making their dreams 
come true and when they succeed, we all benefit from their 
perseverance. All the comforts we enjoy today can be accredited to 
active dreamers and yet it is usually only after they become successful 
that they are respected or helped.
	During my French lessons there is no doubt that I was a passive 
dreamer and deserved the ignorance that resulted from it but no one who 
reads this book can disagree with my claim to later becoming an active 
dreamer.