Shortly before my sixth year, my mother locked me in the basement, moments after receiving an “unexpected” gentlemen friend.
She, however, informed me that I was being punished for failing to wash my hands prior to tea, contrary to her instructions.
When I heard the grandfather clock strike twelve midnight from the sitting room above me, I knew that my mother had forgotten to let me out.
It was then that I shat my navy blue sailor suit, a gift from Aunt Edna.
Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death. I say it serves her right.
Driving with a drunk male companion behind the wheel could get you killed.