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Alfie’s Life Valerie Chambers was getting weaker by the day. Her ten year old son Alfie had tried to be a help but she was fading fast and a medical solution seemed not to be the answer. The cancer that had taken away her liveliness was developing at an exaggerated rate, leaving her with barely enough capacity to offer any support to her loving son. When home from school Alfie immediately set too with his chores; vacuuming, cleaning, organising what needed washing and cooking meals. He did all he could to help but it was taking a toll on the young boy as he watched his mum deteriorate. His poor mother was too exhausted to do much more than lie out and sleep, her illness taking away her once jovial, fun-loving spirit. She appreciated all he did taking on more responsibility than a ten year old should be asked to do. Grateful she had a son who was so devoted and dreading the fact that soon things would change when she entered hospital. Unfortunately, she’d moved a hundred miles away from her hometown to be with her new husband who proved not to be the loving man she thought she’d married. It had only been her and her son for the past eight years, his father having run off with another woman when he was barely two... and completely disappeared from their lives. Still, she had a little job and money to tide her over but mostly it was just the two of them barely scrimping a life. She often went without so her growing son didn’t have to but as her illness took hold over the years, it was her loving son who proved to be the one person she could (and did) rely on. Making friends in the small community had been difficult; somehow Valerie got the blame for her cheating husband. Her fragile son was snubbed at school and their existence was difficult. Even though she was devout in her attendance the church wasn’t quite as welcoming as it could have been - Judgement is what the small town should have been called. Every day Alfie would pray to God that his mother would be granted a miracle and defeat the dreaded cancer that was destroying her body. He had a photograph of the two of them in happier times, when he was six and the disease hadn’t begun to take its toll. He held that image as he prayed and hoped God would listen to him. He tried to live an extra good life; be helpful, polite, caring, and friendly. He promised God that he would never argue, never commit a crime, never forget his prayers and honour his teachers... but his mother’s condition worsened. Alfie himself was a slight boy. Hardly any muscle, never invited onto the sports teams, few friends because he spent all his time looking after his mother. His huge brown eyes often filled with tears as he watched her trying to do even the most basic task, but failing. He would rush in and help but the two of them were finding it more and more difficult to cope. She’d delayed the inevitable as long as possible, making sure that the school year was over and the break begun before allowing herself to be admitted for palliative care. She knew there was no chance of recovery but hoped to spare her son from witnessing the end that seemed so near. In less than a week she was dead. Her son was broken, scared and alone and didn’t know what to do. # Alfie was sat at the breakfast table feeling miserable, the bowl of cereal not breaking him from his sombre mood. The thick terry nappy he’d been forced to wear was hugging him tightly, though actually making sitting at the table more comfortable, he hated what had happened and the reason now compelled to wear such an item. Last night he’d thrown a tantrum. His aunt, who was now his guardian, had told him to clear his stuff away as a guest was arriving but he’d ignored her. It wasn’t that he was being totally disrespectful, it was just that he was thinking back to all the fun and games he and his mother used to play so didn’t want to spoil the memory. Sometimes he sought sanctuary in his childhood reminiscences and found it difficult to leave those happy times. When she reminded him that such behaviour was not acceptable, his frustration led to a noisy, screaming outburst in front of her friend. He’d been warned not to act like a spoiled child or there would be consequences but he’d ignored the signs and continued to be an aggravation. The young lad was angry but had no idea how to contain that anger. He wasn’t really that type of person, his mother having a happy disposition who saw the best in everyone. Over the years, her even temperament influenced her son’s but now she was gone... he railed at the injustice of it all. Later, when the guest had gone and Alfie was asleep his aunt woke him up, dragged him out of bed, pushed him over its side, pulled down his garish boxer shorts and paddled him for displaying such behaviour before fitting the squirming embarrassed boy into a nappy. She’d told him on more than one occasion that if he acted like a big baby, he would be treated as such. She was a fierce woman and a woman of her word. Pulling up a pair of plastic pants she reminded him of her threat (there would be consequences and waved the wooden hairbrush to emphasise the point) and should he even think about removing them, he’d receive an even worse spanking. With the threat now real, and his bottom glowing from what she’d just inflicted (something his mother had never resorted to), a subdued, weepy, unhappy (but nappy-clad) ten year-old boy reluctantly settled down and did as he was told. # Sleep was difficult. He couldn’t get used to the thick padding nor the plastic pants, it felt hot and uncomfortable. He wriggled about trying to relieve his sore bottom from the unwieldly fabric cushion that surrounded his hips and decided to lose the childish garment as soon as possible. However, for the moment the fortitude of his aunt and her stern words of warning made him think again about any indignant opposition to the situation. He’d cried when spanked and thought he was over it. However, suddenly overwhelmed by that very state of affairs his tears returned. He was enraged but realised it was hopeless as his future wasn’t his own it was in the hands of someone else. He was told to be grateful that someone had taken him in and was learning that being angry was painful... especially to his blazing bottom. He mourned even more the loss of his mother, this was never the way it was with her. He sobbed in his little bed, huddled under the bedclothes trying to hide the river of tears that flowed. He cried for his mother, he cried for himself and he cried for the life the two would never have together. When he woke up, to his surprise the nappy was soaked. He hadn’t had a wet night since he was three and now at ten years old, this was a very damp and unforeseen shock. He had no idea why this should have happened and wondered if it was a simply his mind had determined ‘she’s put me in a nappy so I’ll use the thing’. # The last month had been extremely traumatic for Alfie; after his mother died he was sent to her sister, Auntie Florence, as the nearest close relative... his father unable to be tracked down (also the boy had said he would run away if he had to live with the man he despised so much). Although she lived a little over a hundred miles away, she never once visited her sick sister or offered any help whatsoever - nephew and aunt hardly knew one and other. To begin with he was infuriated. The home he’d been sent to whilst his mother was in hospital was awful. He hated the smell, the other kids and the adults who really didn’t want him to be there. He was especially angry at God who watched as his mother suffered and did nothing to help. At the funeral the pastor thanked the Lord for bringing her illness to such a speedy conclusion but Alfie was having none of it and swore in church that God was an “uncaring bastard”. After the burial the church offered, as a last resort, to send him to one of its orphanages but because of such an outburst was mean-spirited enough to turn its back on the boy. He missed his mum so moped around all the time and nothing his aunt was able to do would drag him from his understandable doldrums. His rage occasionally meant his behaviour deteriorated when he became self-absorbed and not connecting with anything around him. He hoped that a better solution would turn up other than his aunt but in truth, once the authorities had found a relation willing to take him in, they’d more or less decided they’d fulfilled their social responsibilities. A blood relative was the best ‘connect’ they thought they could accomplish. # Florence Brewster was his mother’s older sister. She was ten years older than Val and had been a tad resentful of the younger sibling since her birth. It was simply down to the fact that a ten year old girl was not going to get the attention a baby received. Florence had been happy as an only child but this late and unplanned addition to the family had meant affection had to be shared with her parents. Florence had an old photograph of her family on the sideboard; she was the only one of the four who didn’t look that happy. However, family being family they at least pretended to be sociable when they had occasionally met. Florence was a spinster and not very keen on men and even less enthralled by children. She was of the opinion that all children, until the age of twenty-one, should be neither seen nor heard. However, after Val’s death she was the only relation to be in the small congregation so it was to her that Social Services turned to take her nephew. Despite her reluctance (she’d only been at the funeral because she saw it as her duty to ‘family’) she was eventually coerced to take Alfie on temporarily... and although a very strong-minded woman the guilt the agency put on her made it almost impossible for her to refuse. Temporarily was just a term they used to mean permanently. In fact, no sooner had she agreed to this short term fix, than Social Services got on with their next case, feeling they had done what they could. Although she had some sympathy with Alfie’s temperament, she wasn’t adept with children at all and found such moodiness annoying rather than something to be gently and sensitively got through. # Thanks to the church she’d recently become an acquaintance of Mrs Barbara Fitzsimmons who had only just moved to the area. Like Florence, she was a woman who brooked no fools and was steadfast in her resolve that she was correct in everything she did. They got on well together. Unlike Florence, she’d been married and had brought up two sons so it was to her that she turned for advice on how to deal with the impending arrival of a sad and troubled little boy. Mrs Fitzsimmons asserted that a tight leash and regular firm discipline were needed to control any child, although boys in particular needed aggressive measures to contain their self-aggrandisement. Left to their own devices and growing egos, they would expect to be treated as superior and privileged even when they so patently were not. With the imminent arrival of Alfie Mrs Fitzsimmons offered to give her new friend the means she had used on her growing sons and which had so successfully curtailed any such haughty notions, whilst keeping them docile and ineffectual. Auntie Florence’s daily trial of dealing with such a sad little boy meant she was frustrated and irate because she really couldn’t cope... he hadn’t come with a book of instructions. There was also an underlying feeling he was on the verge of a massive eruption. With his loathing for religion, he saw no reason to keep his promises to God... or anyone else for that matter... except that is to the memory of his late mother. # Florence was a constantly irritated woman to begin with; very few things pleased or satisfied her demands, so this sulky and wearisome boy was a drain on her disposition. So, after a week under her protection, and as far as she was concerned, of being more than a little understanding, she started to lay down the law by which Alfie was now expected live. She imbued him with the proverb ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’ alas she picked the wrong subject for this angry child... God was no friend of his. However, she showed no interest in his ill-thought out views so insisted on certain standards and he’d do well to learn them. Alfie and his mum had got on well together so he wasn’t used to such demands. With his mother’s illness there was never any conflict the boy had been a most gentle and thoughtful ten year-old. However, now in his aunt’s care things changed drastically for the young lad and, as Auntie Florence threatened, “...you’d better learn quickly otherwise it will be a painful education”. Thanks to her mentor, the formidable Mrs Fitzsimmons, she was of a similar opinion that discipline, a tight leash and the teachings of the church were what a child needed to keep them on the straight and narrow. She didn’t know if Alfie had gained any bad habits over the past ten years but she could see the daily resentment in the boy’s eyes and had no intention of finding out or allowing anything to develop. She decided that this boy, the boy under her care, would be a model youth and not like those revolting, unholy, neighbourhood children she saw on a daily basis and whose manners appalled her. # Thanks to the supplies and advice from her friend, the wet nappy and sore spanked bottom he now had to bear, were the start of the rules she enforced. His auntie was no longer going to understand the whys and wherefores of a sad little boy, he would have to grasp that life moved on and he had to live to her exacting values... woe betide any slacking in that department. She’d promised him a good hiding for acting up in front of her friend, and guaranteed consequences for acting like a spoilt baby. He now wore the proof that she was a woman of her word and the thick, wet nappy hanging heavily in his plastic pants (items thanks to the worldly Mrs Fitzsimmons) was a reminder that a stroppy attitude and lack of obedience was not permitted. As he sat at breakfast now contrite at what he’d done, she told him that he would be wearing a nappy for the rest of the day, although she would change him after breakfast. This was something he dreaded. He’d been so embarrassed at being put in one the night before but after that spanking, something he’d never experienced in his life, made him think again his plan of revolt. It’d been painful and had astonishingly cowed him completely. He’d never imagined anyone, least of all his mother’s sister, could or would deliver such instant pain to his behind. He’d tried to be brave but once she’d put him in thick slippery protection and turned off the light, he’d cried for over an hour and wished he was dead. The prospect his nappy-wearing was going to last a while longer filled him with dread. He begged her to reconsider but she just told him that once she’d said what would happen – that was what would happen – she wasn’t a woman who flip-flopped on decisions made. He may have thought he was a grown up but his actions and attitude had proved to her he was no more than a petulant little toddler and therefore a nappy was needed to remind him of that simple fact. There would be no further discussion and should he continue to complain could expect to stay wearing a nappy for the foreseeable future. She also expected gratitude from him in future... after all, no one else, she reminded, had volunteered to take him in. # As soon as Florence had explained about Alfie and his forthcoming arrival Mrs Fitzsimmons had handed over a batch of nappies and such supplies she no longer needed as her sons were of age and had left home. She’d also suggested that Florence prepare for the long haul and buy extra supplies. A continuous strict regime needed to be employed to stop a ten year old from developing into a teenage nuisance. Meanwhile, handing over a particularly vicious looking hairbrush, she explained... was not for the treatment of hair. “Nappies on an overly confident boy quickly bring him back down to being an anxious and intimidated model of virtue and compliance. I cannot recommend enough their use on a regular and strict basis. Once a boy feels a powerful sting in his tail he’ll be more likely not wish to repeat the experience so therefore do as instructed.” Mrs Barbara Fitzsimmons had lived by this philosophy throughout her child-rearing years and believed it to be the cornerstone of her success at bringing up two very obedient sons. “A very tight rein, constant reminders of his lowly place in proceedings and attire that proved his juvenile status.” She’d also done a very good job in transferring those ideals to Florence who regarded the lady (who had after all raised two boys) as an obvious expert in this particular field. Although it had never been in his make-up to rebel, Alfie found it hard to stick to the strict structure of his aunt’s rules and lifestyle. She was an early to bed, early to raise type of person, an avid reader but watched very little television. The few possessions that he and his mother had were sold to pay for the funeral so he arrived at his aunts with barely more than the clothes on his back. He loved music, as had his mother, but his aunt had nothing like a record collection, just a few classical music albums, which she’d occasionally play on an old gramophone. The radio seemed her main source of news and entertainment. He came into contact with very few people, mainly only his aunt’s friends and of course the even fiercer Mrs Fitzsimmons, whom he was quite rightly scared of. # From the very first time she was introduced to Alfie he felt threatened. It was fourteen days since he’d arrived in his aunt’s household and she’d arrived one early morning mid-way through Florence changing his rather damp nappy. Although, up until his arrival, she’d never changed one in her life, Mrs Fitzsimmons had been adamant that she needed to learn and so be in complete charge of any and all nappy changes. She emphasised the need to make the child completely reliant and to do this needed Florence to be bold and commanding. So, from the off his aunt knew what to do and how to take charge. He didn’t know this lady was the person who’d given his aunt the wherewithal that he was now saddled with. Nor did he know the influence she had over his aunt. He’d tried to hide himself from this ‘intruder’ but Florence had told him to stay how and where he was; spread naked out on the floor and covered in talcum powder. Mrs Fitzsimmons was not kind and mocked Alfie’s boyish penis, suggesting that he should have it permanently hidden from view. Perhaps a well-padded nappy and much thicker plastic pants might help make things a little more acceptable. Florence took her advice and before he knew it he was bundled up and almost unable to walk. Mrs Fitzsimmons agreed that the plastic pants were an absolute necessity and a boy should go nowhere without suitable protection. “They urinate and mess everywhere... for no reason. You simply cannot trust a boy to do his business where and when expected... boys are animals.” That was his introduction to his aunt’s best friend and he hated her visits because as soon as she arrived she would check to see if he was wet and then suggest ‘more padding’. When she did eventually change him he found the entire thing terrifying and painful. It also left him feeling vulnerable and inadequate. # tbc #

Circumcised I was ten when mum decided I should be circumcised. I’d become increasingly lazy when carrying out my visits to the bathroom. She was fed up with me missing the toilet bowl and I often departed unaware that I’d left a puddle of pee where I stood. This was because I had a very loose foreskin that, if I didn’t retract right back, often covered my pee-hole and sent trickles in different directions. Some pee hit the water so I assumed it all had but I didn’t check and a small (occasionally large) pool could often be left festering in front of the bowl and not in it. Also, as I was getting older, a lot of ‘stuff’ was beginning to gather under it, which in turn caused me some mild irritation. Mum would often say. “Terry, you’re at that age where these things matter, you must take much more care.” However, her constant nagging only made me care less and I became careless... I was ten and beginning to get insolent, not doing as I was told and thinking I knew best. I became a bit of a show off, not through any kind of theatrical talent but showing my contempt at authority to impress my school mates. As far as mum was concerned the final straw came when we had my Aunt Jen, Uncle Mark and their three children visiting. Of course, I’d used the loo last and uncaringly I’d left a rather large pee-slick on the tiled bathroom floor. My four year old cousin Tammy went and slipped in the puddle and banged herself pretty badly on the bowl. Of course her mum and dad thought she’d left the mess and although sympathetic to her injury blamed her for being negligent. Mum let it go, not saying it was my fault but letting me know by her looks that I should volunteer my culpability. I know mum was losing her patience but she never shouted, nor did she ever punish me, so I thought I was on relatively safe ground. However, it took a few of her fiercest stares for me to get the message and though reluctant I confessed my sins (I might have been becoming rebellious but not that rebellious). I saw the relief on mum’s face when I confessed (not a complete lost cause) and a strange feeling ran through my body. For the first time in quite some time, I’d made her proud of me... or so I hoped... and I liked the feeling. I was ten years old, I wanted to rebel and show I was growing up but that approval, that smile, made me briefly reassess the way I was acting. Alas, my aunt and uncle were furious that they’d blamed their sweet daughter, whilst mum, sensing an atmosphere, sent me to my room and was not allowed to continue to play with their two older boys Phil and Kevin. I’d been bragging to them that I could do anything before mum’s scary stare had made me lose a little face with my confession. However, they were equally fascinated and wanted to know why my foreskin caused so much havoc and sought to have a peek (apparently theirs not giving a moment’s worry). It didn’t happen because the next time they saw me I was minus that particular accessory. # As I left the room I could hear, in her anger, my aunt (who is mum’s older sister) lash out at what had happened and told mum in no uncertain terms that I should be in nappies if I peed indiscriminately, leaving puddles everywhere. Mum didn’t react badly (she never lost her temper) but quietly said that she already had plans to sort that particular problem out. She’d read that circumcision was healthier for a young man and that girls preferred a cut penis, whether any of this was true, that’s how it was sold to me. I wasn’t taken to hospital instead a Jewish medical friend of mum’s, who said he’d done hundreds of such procedures, volunteered his services. I hated the idea of hospital and any kind of operation, so, it’d be done in private and mum even swore that it would be “...but a minor inconvenience”. Oh, and yes, it wasn’t a painful procedure because “...babies had it done and they turned out okay”. Mum lied - There was a lot of blood, I was very sore and my poor little penis looked butchered. # With my penis cut and bandaged I found going to the toilet a harrowing experience. What was worse, at night, after keeping my bladder full because of the pain when I did pee, on several occasions I involuntarily wet the bed as I slept. Mum decided that until my penis healed, I should wear a nappy and argued that the soft fabric would be less irritating against my skin and I’d probably heal quicker. I wasn’t happy about this idea believing it was only because my aunt made such a song and dance about my peeing on the floor. However, my wounded penis was quite painful and I disliked waking up to a soaked bed so it seemed a temporary way round my soggy problem. Also, whether it was because of the nappy reference from her sister or not, mum had probably decided what would happen so really I had little choice. This time mum didn’t lie because the fabric was nice and soft against my skin; the padding keeping me snug so my injured thingy didn’t bounce about. Also, the antiseptic creams and various fragrant lotions that area was subjected to were very soothing. In fact, I was quite grateful for the cushion of relief it all offered. Because my penis was really sore, it was too painful to wear jeans or trousers, and although I didn’t feel comfortable about it, for those first few days I wondered around the house wearing very little below the waist apart from the ease of my padding. When I first thought about having to wear a nappy I assumed it was mum punishing me for my behaviour and to possibly placate her sister, as Aunt Jen had been quite caustic about what she thought of a ten year old still peeing on the floor. However, any seething resentment that I perhaps should have aimed at mum just didn’t happen because the nappy was a great help. Mum became very protective, perhaps, overly protective of me and went out of her way to keep me happy; my wellbeing of the upmost importance. Before the operation I would have shirked off any attempt from mum to coddle me. I was ten and growing up and didn’t need constant attention. However, after the messy business I felt wounded so quite pleased mum was lavishing all her attention on me. She soothed my soreness with oily creams and in truth I liked not fighting with her over everything and nothing. I don’t think I was that aware of it but things had changed as a result of my lost skin. Waking up in a soaked nappy was strangely a comfort because despite everything, my sore willy felt less sore lying in a damp fabric cradle. Whichever way mum had attached that night’s padding felt like it was doing its job because the experience was different. Together with a pair of plastic pants, come the morning my attention was centred on a piece of soggy material not a piece of my missing willy. She often said that despite everything I looked happy in a nappy. It was a catchphrase that kept on repeating in my head time after time and at the most inopportune moments. It was an ear worm that once started never seemed to stop and I’d find it gnawing away as I tried to get to sleep. However, no matter how annoying that was, I was always grateful come the morning when my night time awkward insulation had done its duty and saved me from a repeatedly soaked bed. # Despite the initial painkillers I was taking ‘it’ remained tender and swollen and became a bit of a problem when I returned to school as I certainly didn’t intend on wearing a nappy to class. Mum saw that I was struggling to keep my underpants dry so came up with some extra padding sewn into them for me to wear. Strangely, as I was under no pressure to pee because of being stood in front of a toilet, I could let it out in small, relatively painless spurts when and where I felt the need. Often just letting it trickle into the folds of the extra fabric where it was quickly swallowed up. So I wore wet pants regularly whilst I recuperated, and, despite my reluctance on wearing them, mum’s insistence on slick white vinyl pants were the key in preventing any visible leakage. Nevertheless, the problem continued at night, even after my newly circumcised penis had all but healed, because I was still waking up wringing wet... so to combat the nightly deluge the wearing of night time stuffing continued. # I was a little traumatised by the operation to say the least. I was taking an age to mentally recover and thought my recently pared-back boy part looked strange and inflamed and worried it would always be that way. With the constant reminder every time I looked at my red willy I felt responsible for its current state and, although it was the case I no longer left puddles in front of the toilet bowl when I did make use of the facilities, if only I’d taken more care I wouldn’t have been in this position. Meanwhile, I think mum seemed to connect the reason I was wetting to the pain and subsequent agony I’d been subjected to. I don’t know whether this was the case or not, but despite her ten year old boy needing nappies at night, she didn’t get angry about their prolonged use. In fact, she noticed that with the loss of my foreskin I also lost a lot of the insolence I had been beginning to accrue. The real reason - I felt damaged and wanted my mummy to look after me. I wondered why mum didn’t take me to hospital to have it checked out but I think she was disappointed/embarrassed/guilty about what the ‘doctor’ had done. I had nothing and no one to compare my situation to. I had no idea if this was how it went when a boy was circumcised and that I was just one of many. However, what I did know... her ‘friend’ disappeared from our radar completely. I don’t know if mum had words or what but I never saw him again. Good. # The comfort of wearing a soft thick nappy at night weirdly seemed to be the only relief I could count on. So, despite not wearing a nappy since I was three, the thought that I had to wear one to prevent any apparent complications, and soaked bed, seemed exasperating but inevitable. Although my logic wasn’t following any sensible path I became obsessed with keeping that area clean, covered and worried constantly that it just ‘didn’t look right’. Although I thought, and mum fostered that notion, I needed to wear a nappy to fight off any infections, what I really intended was to keep it hidden. I was ashamed of it always looking scarlet and deformed. It was ugly and I hated it and I’d brought it on myself because I peed all over the floor and in doing so had brought about the injury of a little girl. Guilt is a strange thing - how many other people might I have injured by my inconsiderate toilet habits? I needed that extra thick material to prevent anyone seeing it and also to avoid harming the rest of mankind. # At the start of all this I didn’t have much of a conversation about wearing nappies with mum. She just never let me out of them at night and often joked it was advisable to be better protected during the day if we went anywhere ‘special’. Although to begin with I wasn’t all that keen on going outside wearing a thicker nappy, mum made it seem that it was me who was making a big deal about it and no one else would even notice. She asked me if I’d been in the least bit bothered by wearing a nappy at night. As my foreskinless penis was healing I had to admit that it had been of benefit - so, no, it hadn’t been a problem. “And” she asked, “wearing one now... is that a problem?” She was quite intense and I found my days of lying under such scrutiny were becoming a thing of the past. I was wearing one at that moment, having just woken up after another soggy night, and in truth it had been soft and gentle with the plastic pants holding me in some degree of cosiness. “No, not really it’s just...” I shrugged. “Well then, what’s the problem? If there isn’t a problem, stop making difficulties when there aren’t any.” After all the jokiness mum seemed a bit annoyed that I was questioning her but I also detected she was a bit worried (although she never said anything to me about it) that it was taking so long to repair. However, she was correct about the padding; it was keeping me from any excess dribbles and made things nice and comfy down there. Perhaps weirdly I wasn’t unhappy about having to wear a nappy and it was at this point I psychologically began to associate these two words together - ‘Happy’ and ‘Nappy’. One morning I came down stairs to the kitchen, mum was just finishing pegging out the washing and my soaked nappy and plastic pants hung low between my thighs. It looked a lovely day and as I opened the door for mum because she was coming back carrying the laundry basket, a cool breeze took me by surprise and there in front of her I felt a sudden spurt into my already saturated nappy. The only thing was I couldn’t stop and mum watched as my nappy expand whilst it soaked up even more of my involuntary pee. “It’s a good job you’re wearing that,” she said pointing to my glistening plastic pants, “otherwise had you been wearing your school uniform yet... it would’ve been soaked.” I’d been rooted to the spot but incredibly embarrassed at peeing so publicly and it being witnessed by mum. I couldn’t think of an excuse or even what to say so I simply felt ashamed. Mum pointed upstairs. “Okay, take them off and I’ll get them in the next load... let’s get you ready for school.” Meanwhile, she’d bought a set of different coloured and loose-fitting shorts she thought wouldn’t put pressure around my injury like my school trousers and jeans had been doing. Since the operation I found such items very annoying to wear, tight and at times uncomfortably rubbing against my thicker underpants, so these baggy shorts came as something of a welcome relief. ##tbc##