In response to Writing 101: Size Matters.
At twelve I lived in a pointy-roofed home on the corner of Bearsdown Road and Coltsfield Close in Plymouth, England. It had a gigantic swath of grass bordered by a concrete wall that ran at least fifty feet, and was favored by local hoodlums who’d hide their cigarettes under the loose bricks.
During this particular year, my Dad was away at sea with the Navy. My Mum continued making wine in the fermenters under the stairs, and at dinner times we’d turn the telly around to watch American sitcoms Bewitched or Alice.
It was the year that I got my ears pierced. Four years before the age my parents had originally agreed upon but with the authoritarian figure absent, it was easy to wear away at my Mum’s resolve.
That was a turbulent year. Mistakes were made by both of us. The best parts of it belonged with our cat, Jenny Muffin, who would snuggle with me under the blankets at bedtime. She’d curl up against my stomach and we’d both fall asleep warm and cozy.