Giggling in the bath

Auntie Essie was my mother's spinster sister. No, that's not quite right, she had been married very young, but the marriage was 'never consumated' (family gossip). She was like a much beloved maiden aunt, and I adored her. My parents sent me to her for school holidays and we used to have such fun. I went with her to work (Secretary at Anglo Vaal Company), went out with her and her best friend Madge Smith, bowling or to the cinema, and chugged around in her little black Austin. But, best of all was sharing the bath with her. She was huge, about 300 pounds, and everything wobbled when she moved. I had to squeeze into the bath with her, but how we giggled. I always remember the giggling. All the neighbours in her block of flats used to know when I was visiting, as they heard us giggling. She had a divan bed that we shared and we always fell asleep holdng hands. I wished that she was my mother! She died when I as 16 and left me feeling utterly bereft. Now, 44 years later, I love her still and think of those giggly nights in the bath.

None are so blind as those who will not see.

I had the most awful twitch by the time I was about 9. I could barely see anything without my eyes giving way to a frantic involuntary contraction, which screwed up my whole face and made me look even more peculiar than I already was. My parents took me to a child Psychologist (which was quite a 'ground breaking'thing to do in the Fifties) as I was extremely nervous by then. Of course I was! I had not only witnessed my brother having an epileptic fit, but was then warned by my mother not to play at school during playtimes ever again, but to watch him all the time. The psychologist admonished my parents for placing this heavy burden on such a young child, and suggested that I was given a plain pair of glasses (sans prescribed lenses) to help me to get over the twitch. And it did work for a time, till a boy in my class told me one day with glee in his voice that they were 'not real, just plain glass'. I was devastated and ran home and threw them in my beloved pram( see 'Pram or rubbish dump?') and never wore them again. They shoud've sent that brat to the Psychologist!

The first 'drag' is the deepest

My parents both smoked, heavily, day and night, so we grew up in a fug of second-hand smoke. Of course, the day I found an unlit cigarette under Ma's bed, I realised I was the luckiest person on earth. Grabbing Ian after supper that very night, I rushed outside behind my bedroom window to 'light up', using a box of matches from the kitchen drawer. What a 'rush' I felt, so grown-up and sophisticated. Of course I never dreamed that Ma was watching me through a slit in the venetian blinds in my bedroom. 'Harry' she shouted, running out of the back door towards us. Hastily, very hastily, I put the cigarette out with my bare foot, thinking 'help!!!' Dragging me inside where Dad had a hidden stash of huge 'phallic' cigars, they decided to 'teach me a lesson'. When he handed me this monstrosity,I started off thinking 'oh this should be fun' but gradually got greener and greener at the gills with each puff I took. I remember her words' if you wanna smoke, I'll show you how to smoke'. Thanks Ma, you certainly did. As soon as I turned 18 and left home, I bought my first packet and didn't stop for 20 years.