Reminds me of the time my brother and I and our neighbor were kicking footy on the fringes of Selwyn Park one winter's evening. It was Thursday, payday in those days. My father and my mother did the weekly shopping, caught the train back to Albion, and slowly trudged home from the station, laden with groceries. Just before they reached Selwyn Street, I had pushed my younger brother into the ground, picked up the footy, kicked it back to our neighbor. In the meantime, my brother picked up a yonnie, as we called a rock in those days, and threw it at me. It hit my head, blood gushed and by the time my parents entered our yard, my brother and I were returning home to find a bandage. My father asked what had happened. I told him, and while my mother washed my skull and stopped the bleeding, I heard my father go to the back of the house to find the cane mattress beater. I returned to the kitchen just as my father was about to administer a full-bloodied whack on my brother's backside - he had been ordered to lie face down across a chair. My brother yelped. My father repeated the dose and as he raised his arm to deliver the final blow, I blurted out, Dad, please don't - I started it, it was my fault. My father looked at me and said, Don't worry, you're next.