Summer 1967, Age 15
I woke to sounds of clattering from the tiny kitchen area a few feet from my head. Mother was boiling the kettle for tea and making porridge. In the transition between sleeping and wakefulness, I felt a churning mix of peace and alarm. Half asleep, I imagined I was a child; someone was making my breakfast. As my eyes opened, reality hit: the claustrophobic caravan, the smell of paraffin and Mother’s overpowering presence. Even with her back to me, I sensed her edgy energy; like the porridge, she might over-boil any moment. Be careful! [Read more…] about 9: The Complex Mother