It may well have been the day, I have been told it was in February 1952, when my father went to the Maternity Hospital to drop of a bottle of my mother's milk for me (born prematurely on the 26th November, 1951,) and discovered that the staff were giving the milk to other children who they deemed more likely to reach a normal birth weight than me.
Although normally a taciturn Scot, he lost his temper completely and picked me up and made for the door, saying he would take me home where I would be properly looked after.
Told he couldn't just do that, he replied that as a doctor and more importantly my father, he was actually the only person who had the authority to say where I should be and how I should be treated, and marched out.
I don't know how he drove home with a baby and no carry-cot, or if I was wearing hospital gown, nappy and shawl or my own.
I imagine he wrapped me in his coat, laid me on the front seat, where he could grab me at need, and put his medical case up as a barrier.
Too late to ask him now.