My mother died when I was eleven, and after that I was brought up by my abusive step-father. It’s not just step-mothers in fairy stories that are horrible. I think wicked step-fathers are ten times worse.
It was such a hopeful thing when I left school and got a job in an office, mainly filing stuff. Things like that. It was the first step to gaining independences from that offensive man.
The office was on the third floor of a building and I was happily learning the job when who should turn up but my step-father who had come to approve of the job or not. The first thing was the air-conditioning. Didn’t I know it harboured Legionnaires’ disease? Didn’t I know that if I aspired to type at a computer all day I’d get repetitive motion disorders? The communal coffee making facility was a haven for bacteria and germs. On and on he went. He took the joy out of my first job. In fact he suggested that I should drop the job altogether and come home and housekeep for him.
I asked if he would like to see the spectacular view of the city from the roof above the fourteenth floor. Of course he would.
It was a terrible accident.