I always wanted red hair as a child because my best friend when was 10 had carrot-coloured hair - we used to imagine that she was Queen Elizabeth and she would strut about majestically. Since I am half French, a quarter English and a quarter Scots, I naturally played her cousin, Mary Queen of Scots, whose mix of nationalities is the same. And what was even better for my friend, she got to kill me before afternoon lessons started. I got to be a tragic, martyred heroine, which was fun, too. So when my husband and I applied to adopt each of our sons, we were both very surprised to be asked, in the same breath as the questions about whether we would be prepared to consider a child with a parent who was a drug addict or a criminal, or a child with ‘coloured’ blood [the agency’s words - it was a long time ago and I know no agency would use those words now], whether it mattered to us if the child had ginger hair. We said that none of these characteristics would put us off, and indeed, to be honest, I rather hoped one that at least of the children we were offered might have red hair. As it happened, neither did, so it wasn’t until over two decades later that I realised that children ere routinely teased or bullied for having ginger hair - auburn hair doesn’t seem to elicit the same ridicule. Mind you, my friend really hated being called ‘Carrot-top’, and We both agreed that it was silly anyway because carrot-tops are green and wilted, not carrot-coloured.