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I  was born at an early age. Premature actually. My birth was a surprise to my Mum ..... & everyone else in the pub at the time. It was during the Depression, & they were tough times. I was abandoned on a doorstep. I wasn’t found there. No, the door opened out. I was found two somersaults out on the roadway. There was a note pinned to my shawl which read. “Keep your head down. The door opens outwards. signed Mum!”
Years later when Mum had enough coupons to get me out of the orphanage, I met my brothers. That's when the tough times really started. We were so poor the woman next door had my brother. He was a Caesarian birth. It didn’t effect him, but I noticed he always left the house through the front window.
We lived in a tough neighbourhood in that you could walk ten blocks without leaving the scene of the crime. We used to call the nuns The Little Sisters of the Rich & our school still retained capital punishment.
  When we went to school my Dad used to paint the house a different colour & change the number on the front gate. He was tough on us. He made us run two miles every night. After one week we were 14 miles from home. His swimming training was tougher. He threw us off the deep end of the pier. Swimming to shore wasn’t so bad. Getting out of the bag was the hard part.
  Tough? We used to have bread & pullet most nights. Except Saturdays. On Saturday night we always had Windmill Pie. (What’s Windmill Pie?) You get a bit if it goes round.
  Before Mum & Dad ran away from home Dad gave me some serious advice about getting a job. I will never forget it. He had taken me aside one day & said. “There are three kind  of people in this world; those that can count  & those that can’t.” I knew he was in the latter category when he used to read us nursery rhymes: “One, two, three, buckle my shoe. Three, four, five, open the door.”
  I got the message to dodge accountancy & took my first job which determined my destiny as a travel writer. I became a proof reader for a sky writing firm.

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