May, 1968

I am barely two months old and my world is little more than the faces, hands and baby bottles that come within the limited range of my infant vision. My life is an unremarkable regimen, of sleeping, eating, shitting, washing, rinsing and repeat. It is a quintessential newborn’s life. My mother has returned from the hospital ready to get back to her life. My grandmother has decided to stay on a little longer than planned and one assumes her decision to remain was to not only help take care of her new grandson, but to take care of her daughter as well. As to my father’s indiscretions, these were not mentioned. In my first few weeks of life, my father spent most of his time at the hospital with my mother while she was recovering. Whether they resolved their issues by my father’s apologies carried on a flood of guilty tears or the more practical act of negotiation and agreements, what they did to steady their shaky marriage is known to no one but themselves.

I have a brother who is 12 years older than me. What happens in the mind of the first son when his 12 year reign of being the only boy is breached by a new male within the house is unknown to me and only theorised by the experts. In my house there was always tea in the afternoon: sugary, milky tea served with curiously flavoured biscuits of lemon, caraway and buttermilk. It was during one of these afternoon teas, as the story is told, that I made my first loud cry. Upstairs my mother was changing me and my grandmother was downstairs preparing tea. My grandmother yelled to my mother upstairs. My mother left me alone on the change table, went to the top of the stairs to see what my grandmother wanted. I am told it was not an instant later that I let loose with a horrible howl. My mother ran back into the room where she had left me to find me on the floor, naked and screaming. Standing next to the table was my older brother. Whether by confession by my brother or simple deduction by my mother it was clear my brother had rolled me off the change table. I was not hurt but from them on I got to take my afternoon nap in a baby carriage that was kept in the kitchen. My first scents would be bread and biscuits and tea and my first sounds would be the shared gossip, issues and laughter of neighbourhood women.

As to my brother, one can only assume he was punished in a manner befitting attempted murder. One assumes.

A radio hit in May, 1968
Troggs, Love is All Around.