I have a vivid memory of scooting around in a brightly-coloured baby walker when I was maybe one or two years old. In my memory I was on wooden floor-boards and I scooted close to an open sliding door to a verandah and was herded back to a less precarious area of the house by an adult – possibly a parent or family friend – on a summer day in a house surrounded by dark-leafed plants.
The baby walker kind of looked like this:
But as I was born in 1981, I’m sure the design was a lot more dangerous than the one pictured.
I have a baby memory of eating super glue and getting my lips stuck together, and another one of eating coins. Of course both of those memories are more of my parent’s frenzied reactions than any details of where I was or how it turned out.
I also have a particularly vivid memory from a pre-school age of coming down from my tree-house, in a yard that grew a lot of bamboo, to meet one of my dad’s former work friends, a man with long straight black hair down to almost his waist.