I was 4 years old. My mother and I went home from the city centre in the tram. Children’s playgrounds passed through the window one by one. It must be understood that in the 70s we were not blown up by them. There was no dream like this in every courtyard. Of course, I canyoned and asked to get out of the mountain for a moment. According to my mother’s version, we were in a hurry, but then she brought me a more convincing argument. “Let’s go home, I want to go to the toilet,” she said and I cried. Here in the tram came a young officer (I think he was in shape, but what kind of...) and play with my mother:

How to get to the center?

It is on the other side.

Are you sitting in that tram?

Not very clever!

Then he turned his attention to me:

Why is your mother so evil?

I found it completely unacceptable to speak so about my mother and immediately advocated her:

She is not angry, she just wants to write.