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Robert Bruce Weston, 46, and his wife Marie, 35, both work in adult education and live with their daughter Emily, five, in a three-bedroom semi in Plymouth. Robert was abandoned in the Odeon cinema, New Street, Birmingham on 26 March 1956 when he was about three-weeks-old.

I always celebrate my birthday on March 1 even though I know it's probably not the actual day I was born on. I could be as much as a month out, but there's never been anyone in my life who actually knows.

But I've always known I was a foundling. With no blood relatives, no knowledge of my ancestors nor even my birthplace, much of my life has been spent wondering who I am.

All I know is that someone abandoned me as a small baby in the cloakroom of Birmingham's Odeon cinema. I was found by stunned staff underneath a heater, snugly wrapped in a shawl. I'd probably only been there a short time and apparently a tall woman in her late 20s, with dark or red hair, was seen in the vicinity. She never answered police appeals to come forward.

Was she my mother? Someone had clearly been looking after me. I was dressed in expensive 'Cherub' label baby clothing, weighed about 8lb and found to be excellent health at Birmingham Children's Hospital.

One of the doctors, Dr Robert Arthur, guessed I was about three weeks-old and gave me my March 1 birthday, as well as his first name. My second name 'Bruce' came from Dr Bruce Parker, who also cared for me, but I've never met them as an adult.

From the hospital I was taken to Oaklands Children's Home, a Victorian mansion in nearby Droitwich, Worcestershire where I was one of around 40 children in care. I thought of the other boys and girls as my brothers and sisters, but there was no one I could think of as a parent. The staff were strict, the regime often harsh and regimented.

I remember vividly how we children were made to sit on our beds while the floor was washed with pungent Jeyes Fluid. If we dared walk on the wet floor, the house-keeper would bash our legs with a stick.

Once, when I was naughty, I was sent to the Matron's office where I was made to stand in the corner while her Spaniel sat behind me. If I moved, it growled. I was only five and it scared the life out of me.

I longed to have a mummy and a daddy to take care of me and wondered why I had no parents. I must have known I was a foundling, I can't remember ever not knowing, but I have no recollection of how I was told or who told me. Just that I was somehow here, alone without any relatives which always made me feel very sad and rather vulnerable.

Like the other children, I was told that if I was good, someone may adopt me. We used to line up when people came to look us over. If we were lucky, we'd be taken out for the day. If not, we'd watch from the dormitory window as the chosen few went down the drive, wishing we were them.

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