A narrative on heroism.
Eighteen months ago I returned to the UK with my family, my daughter aged five now, and Portuguese partner, Jose Antonio.
At 31 he had traveled extensively in Spain and Portugal but had no qualifications to speak of, having abandoned his education aged 14 when he ran away for the final time from one of the many children's homes or borstals where he had lived since the age of eight. He was a free spirit when I met him, but love and then a child soon brought him down to earth. Since the age of 19 and subsequently for the seven years we'd been together he had supported us through his art work, selling to galleries, shops and to the public.
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He spoke occasionally of studying, taking practical courses that might enhance his art work, but there never seemed to be the time, the cycle of preparing, painting and selling was never ending.
We came to the UK for my sake, he left everything behind and struggled to find work and sell his paintings here. He never studied English and when I met him in 1999 he spoke not a word. During our relationship he did of course pick some up but when we got here he struggled to understand what was being said to him and had no concept of English spelling or grammar.
Today he completed his A levels and GCSEs and has a place at university to study Fine Art.

Oh, and he learned to drive in a month, passing his test in Portugal just three days before we were due to come and live over here.

There's no doubt that he is a 'special one'.