In our old house in Highett Street, we had a spiral staircase which was a source of constant entertainment for our grandson Winton. This was because trips up and down the stairs became the equivalent of a rock concert.
Nana Di would carry him up the stairs counting them off one by one and looking over to check that Grandpa was paying attention, accompanied by chants of “up up up”. Once upstairs, there were treats in the nursery and a visit to the favourite Rooster picture. Occasionally, things would be thrown over the balcony at grandpa.
Coming down the stairs was a similar performance, with chants of “down down down” and with counting and kisses at the bottom.
Left to his own devices, Winton would often crawl to the bottom of the stairs and gaze upwards. This was always accompanied by admonitions not to climb the stairs. “Too dangerous, Winton. You might fall.”
Then on our last day in the house, this happened.
We start climbing the spiral staircase on the outside more or less under our own steam.. Now, this is real kid stuff. (Notice Nana Di looking on slightly apprehensively in the background.)
Now just imagine what was going on in that huge young and wonderfully plastic brain.
With my dad, I’m nearly 3 m high.
My dad will help me do the dangerous things
Even with my dad, I need to hold on with both hands.
Think outside the spiral.
and probably a bit of
Look at me, Grandpa. I can climb the stairs