It all began in 1984 when I was living at The Crapper Home. I was eight years old – half the age I am now, which is weird when you think about it.
It was really called The Trapper Home, after Donald Trapper, an old guy with white hair who died ages ago and was hung on the wall outside the office – his portrait I mean. I don't know who started calling it Crapper, but it stuck.
There weren't many places like Crapper even then. In the old days there were lots of them and they were called orphanages, in case you didn't know, and people stayed in them for ages – but Crapper wasn't like that. Most of the kids stayed for less than a year, then they'd be sent off to foster homes or whatever. I don't know why I was there so long. I had been there for as long as I could remember. I sometimes wonder if Dirty Joe had anything to do with it.
Dirty Joe was the gardener and handyman at Crapper. He was called Dirty Joe because he was dirty. But he was really actually clean. That's where it all started I guess, the day I found out Dirty Joe was clean.
The day we buried the cat.