All things considered, it turned out to be a good year for the kid living at the end of the street.
The truth of it was, there was always plenty of drink in the house. His parents used to buy whatever booze their heart’s desired, very cheap, on a regular basis, from the woman at number 12.
His father was a doorman and bouncer in a night club and occasional burglar, it was just a spot of house-breaking whenever the opportunity presented itself.
His mother was a prostitute, drug dealer and backstreet abortionist, when required.
His sixteen year old sister was a prostitute and occasional mud wrestler.
His father’s criminal associates frequently visited the house, sometimes to plan jobs, other times simply to get drunk, shout and swear a lot.
His father was eventually caught having an affair with the woman at number 12.
Soon after this, his sister found religion.
His parents continued to have lots of arguments, which on occasions, became violent and physical.
Then, quite by accident, the kid discovered that the estranged and long-gone husband of the lady at number 12 was his real father.
It was around this time that his sister got a really good job as a receptionist in a global resources company.
His mother died from an overdose of drugs.
His dad won some money at a dogfight.
His sister married a fifty-something multi-millionaire oil baron and moved into his huge mansion out on the edge of town.
His step-dad married the daughter of the woman from number 12.
The woman from number 12 committed suicide.
His sister’s husband died of pulmonary tuberculosis, and his step-dad got shot in a police raid at the night club.
So… he moved in with his sister.
