Watched Cry Freedom again last night and again I cried at the closing credits and memories came flooding in, of the night in 1982 before I started labour prematurely after I had danced and sung at an anti-apartheid benefit until the early hours, of the time we watched the movie for the first time with the two South Africans I knew (one just sat and cried, the other dug her fingernails so deeply into her hands that she drew blood), of my union's strike action in 1984 and some years later the first week in paradise sitting under a jacaranda tree reading Biko and watching S swim in the pool of the posh hotel we were put up in until we could move to our house, while fancy tourists watched us from behind their expensive sunglasses and S would stare back in wonder, wow, real life Barbies. It was a bewildering time and one day I asked my little girl who was splashing around the pool whether she wanted to go home, back to Granny and the dogs and all she said was, what? now? no way!, and shook her head in disbelief.

And now, this movie is just another soppy historical epic.