Until I was nine, we lived in Englefield Green, a sprawling commuter village next to Windsor Great Park in Surrey. We had a big garden, my best friend lived in the next road and I went to the village school where we sat at desks according to our rank in class. I don’t need to tell you which articulate little know-all was ultra-keen to cling on to desk No 1. I was bossy and self-confident, and utterly secure in my status as both baby of the family and Queen of the Playground. Then we moved to the West Midlands.

I don’t know exactly how I introduced myself on my first day at Chadsmead junior school in Lichfield, but I’m guessing I used several of the following phrases: “Hello, my name’s Felicity; my father’s a scientist; my favourite television programme is Tales from Europe, especially the Polish one set in medieval Kraków; Last year I had a letter published in ‘Melody Maker’; Have you ever read the ‘Uncle’ books by JP Martin?” Bear in mind that all this was spoken in an accent not dissimilar to that of Celia Johnson, while everybody else in the school rhymed the word “you” with “cow”, and you’ll see that my subsequent lack of popularity is easily explained.

One way of dealing with a childhood move is to assimilate; another is to embrace one’s differences. I defiantly went for the second approach. I never lost my Surrey accent, never used a one-syllable word when I could unfurl something longer, never pretended ignorance of a subject even when derision beckoned.

I couldn’t forgive Lichfield for not being Englefield Green, but if pressed I would have admitted to liking one or two of its more romantic features. From our front door we had a completely unobstructed and picture-postcard view of the three-spired cathedral; its bells were our soundtrack. Walking into the cathedral close, with its patchwork of architectural styles, was like stepping into a Rosemary Sutcliff.But best of all – an unrivalled best – was the library. It was built in pinkish glazed brick, with a cupola like a pepper pot, and a classical statue in the little entrance hall of a nude lady holding a mirror. It was a five-minute walk from our house and it was the one place where I felt truly happy; I went in the day after we moved and I never really came out again.

I browsed the shelves as if I were at a pic’n’mix counter: a couple of children’s novels, a random biography, a book of film reviews, an anthology of science-fiction short stories, an instruction manual for stage magicians, a mother’s account of autism, One Hundred Great Paintings, How to Look After a Dog, the Fawlty Towers scripts … At an age when I could remember nearly everything I read, I read nearly everything, and I’m still, almost 50 years later, drawing on that vast grab-bag of knowledge.

• Old Baggage by Lissa Evans is published by Black Swan.