Sunday, 4 August 2019
How I remember stitches when as a child growing up. My brother's mended clothes were worn by me when he grew out of them. Yes, this is a story of the war and vivid is my memory of those days. Nobody is proud of poverty but then all suffered. Mum had to stitch our worn clothes together. Dad repaired our shoes holes as we couldn't afford a tradesman to do it.
My brother was lucky he was older so most of the new clothes went to him first and then handed down to me as he grew out of them so I benefitted by looking pretty ordinary! If you wore something new you might be teased or pushed over into a puddle so that you looked like the rest of us...dirty and poor as church mice.
My brother didn't like me. He thought I had stolen mother's breasts from him when I was born. I was five before he let me play with him and his mates in our street. Still he kept the upper hand by pushing me in the stinging nettles on the way home to show me who was boss.
However by that time I was making my own friends at school so we tended to play separately there so I was bullied by kids my own age...which seemed fair! Boys are adventurous and I was better at climbing trees than my brother; so I could shimmy up a tree and grin stupidly down at him, so he threw stones at me.
Once I fell out a tree and broke my wrist. When I showed my mother her immediate question was "Did your brother do this to you?" Sadly I said "No...I did it myself".
Image found at https://www.washingtonpost.com/