I remember the old house we use to have. It was a double story. The rooms were small, and there was a wooden staircase leading to the top. The garden was the size of a postage but because we were at the end of the complex, it was marginally bigger.
During the time I was living there my mother had an operation on her toes. They had grown skew from birth. After my mother had given birth to my brother and me they had apparently got worse. This operation meant that metal pins, about 3 inches each had to be inserted into the front of each toes, and my mother therefore had to wear a cast on one foot.
Besides using crutched everywhere she went, she seemed to manage fine. I also just didn’t seem my mother’s frustrations as a kid, you just so lost in your own world. There was one thing that I remember my mother battling with, this was the wooden staircase in our old house. When she was at the top she would shout “Coming down!” and slide the crutches down first. The crutches went thunkety-thunkety-thunk, and clattered on the tiles at the bottom. She would then plonk herself down on her bottom, and slide down each step until she met up with her crutches at the bottom.
One day my mother fetched me from school. It was like every other day, except we now had a dog. She opened the boot of the car, and showed us a small white dog in a carboard box. A colleague at work had found this puppy on the street, and now a new pet was born into the family, We already had a very large Siamese cat, Simba and now a small excitable dog entered the home. We called her, Duchess.
It took a while to adjust to this thing. It chewed my toy soldiers, and it decorated the carpet with piles of poo. When my mother found the feces she would take the dog aim its nose at the fresh parcel, and give it a hiding with her hand from behind. The dog gave a yelp and ran away, with its stumpy tail tucked away.