We had been living in our first family home for a few years, when Mum decided we needed a garden shed. And although I don't remember it going up—the wooden structure simply appeared one day, at the back of the garden, next to a gnarled red-leafed plum tree—I do remember the satisfied look on Dad's face.

     It was soon crammed with all the usual things: garden tools, tricycles and scooters and discarded household items. Even so, there was just enough room for my sister and I and the girl next door—Smelly Stella, to play school or house or shop: the clichéd games of a 60' s childhood. I was the eldest and therefore teacher, mother or shop keeper. It was a privileged position I enjoyed and thought fit for someone of my advanced years.

     In summer when the plums on the tree ripened and there were far too many to eat, the red fruit would plop to the ground like lazy drops of rain. Flies were also plentiful at that time of year, and it seemed like a fruity, sweet but stinky smell buzzed around the shed. It was time to make jam.

     Mum crouched into the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink to retrieve glass jars and their matching lids. Everything was boiled clean. Dad handed out buckets to my sister and me, to Smelly Stella, to John from two doors down and to Ian from across the street. Time to shake, climb and prod the tree. Each of us keen to collect the most plums. The biggest and juiciest ones always just out of reach.

     One year Dad borrowed a neighbour's ladder. He angled it against the shed and  climbed up to reach the fruit closest to the sun. When he went inside for a cup of coffee, the other kids took their chance and climbed up to the corrugated iron roof. I watched them all go up the ladder. Even Smelly Stella was unafraid. Was I the biggest baby after all? I stood on the ground, watching my little sister and the others on the shed roof having, what looked like, the best fun imaginable.

     'I can see right into old Crabby Face's back yard,' John said. 'Mum's right. She is an old drunk. There are empty beer bottles all over her back yard.'

     'I can see into our place!' screamed Smelly Stella. I'd never heard her sound so excited. So it had come to this—Smelly Stella was informing me of world events. I was the smart one. I was three years older than her and two years older than my sister. So when everyone implored me, once again, to climb the ladder, I mustered every scrap of courage I had and—heart thumping—ventured upward.

     'That's it, don't look down, you're almost there,' John said. I had to admit everyone was very encouraging. But I felt like a big baby. My hands were trembling and I was seconds from crying. I took each rung carefully, one at a time, until I got to the top, where a sea of arms reached out to pull me up. A wave of voices yelled, 'hurray!'

     I'd made it. I was on the shed roof. I too could see into old Crabby Face's yard, and on the other side was Stella's mum walking out to the washing line with a basket of wet clothing. Not a second later she spotted us.

     'Stella! she shrieked, dropping the basket and racing up the side of her house and down into ours, knocking on our kitchen window as she dashed past. We all knew what would happen next. John scrambled down the ladder, followed by Ian, my sister, and Smelly Stella. I'd never seen her move so fast.

     Mum, Dad and Stella's mum ran down the garden path towards the shed. The boys had, by now already disappeared. My sister and Stella were safely on the ground. I was still on the shed roof. Paralysed with fear. Tears trickling down my face. It had taken all of my courage to climb the ladder, I had none left to propel me down.

     Stella got dragged home by the scruff of her hand-knitted cardigan. Mum gave my sister a smack on the bum. Dad simply climbed the ladder and carried me down.