How Not To F*** Them Up [antikvár]

Introduction When I was three months old, in 1953, my mother regularly parked me in a pram at the end of the garden. Relatives tell me that I was sometimes left unattended there, crying for long periods. I can believe this is true because my mum was hard-pressed. I was the third of four children and by the time my younger sister was born, there were four of us under the age of five: a big burden for any mother. Although I cannot directly remember much, I believe that things did not improve when I started toddling. While my mum was probably pleased to have a son - all my siblings being female - I doubt this enabled her to be very responsive. I suspect she was mildly depressed for most of the time and I am sure that she was both tired and irritable. She was an erratic provider of discipline, frequently resorting to clips around the ear-hole. While my dad was an exceptionally maternal parent for a man of that era, and while he did work from home, he can only have been much in evidence during the evenings and weekends. My most vivid early impressions are of my mother's drawn face with down-turned mouth. She would slump at the kitchen table, exhausted, and her mood was one of resignation, with an undertow of anger. The main moments of emotional relief were provided by her packet of Gold Leaf cigarettes. From the first inhalation, she would become animated,