I remember when we were living in the pizzeria in Andorra and the massive gas oven blew up in the kitchen. I just remember the almighty bang and have an idea of Neil shuffling me and sis into a bedroom, out of the way. This was nothing new, he liked us out of the way. In fairness to my mum we came home to England because her new man ‘didn’t really like us’. But that could be something else I made up. They probably just had a row once too often.
I remember when my mother also did a Sylvia Plath. Without the grace or thankfully, the success. When you’re used to not being able to go to sleep until your drunken mother goes safely to bed, it was at least slightly different to find her squatted down in front of the oven with her head inside. Natural gas didn’t really have the desired effect.
At least we could laugh about it later.