The relief of Tom's survival was short lived. Mother, it seemed, had also taken these attempted murders badly. The stresses and strains of bringing up two kids, even ones as angelic as us, proved too much. She was rushed off to hospital. Father did what any sensible man would do - send the kids to the grandparents and go to the pub. Thankfully the clot (i think that's what it was) was curable and mum returned a few weeks later. Thomas and i vowed that we would never do anything to alarm her again. This lasted for approximately ten minutes then i teased Tom and he nearly blinded me with a book, he was from the beginning a very good shot. This was a recurring theme throughout our childhood.
The next couple of years passed by in a blur but it soon became obvious, to me anyway, that sharing a room with Tom was not an option. Thankfully by now i was able to voice my concerns in a way intelligble to my parents. They told me to shut up - another recurring theme. I explained the situation to Tom, we considered our options and went for guerilla warfare. We decided if we could make our room smell bad enough father would desire a residence with a great distance between the bedrooms. Thomas and i were both blessed with a gift for producing unpleasant aromas. We moved a few weeks later to St Albans Road, just around the corner.
Father's career was on the rise, always good news - more money for us. Mum was happy and we now had loads of friends and cousins to play with. Life was great. Then disaster struck, we had to go to a place called "school". I could walk, i could talk, i could play games but apparently i needed to learn to write (mine's still unreadable), to draw (i can't), to sing (painful) and to play a musical instrument (i just wanted to hit things with hammers). I'm sure that the main aim of school is to prepare people for the fact that, unless extremely lucky, they are going to spend the next 40 years doing something that they'd rather not.
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