When my left lace starts to flap, I have come to look down and scowl.  A quick bend of the knee and I’ve tucked the lace down the side between leather and ankle.  Then when I have the opportunity, I re-tie.

For a boy who always wore slip-on, black sand shoes, I don’t recall ever being too bothered about learning to tie my laces – I guess I realised I was way behind some of my peers in first school when I was, by some miracle…or by some terrible mistake, picked for the school football team.  Despite my love of football (not so in present times), I was never really a player…  Nevertheless I was elated!  It wasn’t too long before I was on the team sheet and ready to play my first ever competitive game of school football.  Over the days preceding my first kick off, I flicked back and forth through my copies of Shoot and dreamed that the opposition were the very best in the district, and we’d be hammered!  With only minutes to go before the final whistle, I would save the day and win the game with miraculous dribbling, and red-hot strikes a professional would envy, scoring goal after goal with skilful ease!  In reality though, I was terrified because I hadn’t yet learned to tie my laces…except in knots.

I received my kit some days earlier, a bright, canary yellow – socks, shorts and shirt, and with a black number nine on the back; the number of my hero, Supermac.  I remember wearing it and it being such a novelty, wore it around the house of an evening!  I wasn’t allowed to wear my brand new football boots; black with three white stripes at the outside and three on the instep…with moulded, rubber studs.  I would have loved screw-in studs but unfortunately our budget wouldn’t stretch that far.  I spied a picture in my magazine of Terry Yorath running out for Wales and noticed the long, screw-in studs that he had! Oh, dreams were made of such things…

On a freezing cold, Saturday morning, on a rock-solid, frozen school football pitch, I ran out and took up my position.  Sleeves pulled down and wrapped around my hands to keep out the chill, goosebumps on top of goosebumps on my blue legs, and feeling my nose stinging with cold, I was ready.  Not one of us could run straight because of the ground conditions and the studs offered no grip to either push-off or slow down.  I think we played around twenty minutes for each half, and as it happens, we were playing one the best teams in the area, St. Patrick; everyone used to lose against this formidable team…  I was hopeless and hardly moved an inch throughout the whole game.  I was off my feet more often than on, I was screamed at for getting a throw in wrong and the ball ending up with the opposition, penalised for pulling someone’s hair, swearing at the referee (our PE teacher), gave away countless free kicks for pulling shirts and finally dragged by my shirt after I’d sat down in the middle of the pitch, arms folded and in a strop of frustration.  The game was a complete shambles and with only minutes to go, not a single goal had been scored!

With the final whistle upon us, we were given a corner.  The ball was struck and bumped its way across the frozen goal mouth, right to my feet! I couldn’t believe the ball had come to me and my timing was absolutely perfect!  I moved to swing my right foot and whack the ball through the net!  I’d be the hero!  However, I stood on my laces which had come loose, actually never having been tied, only wrapped around and around my boots and tucked in the sides, tripped and fell on the ball.  The goalkeeper, tense with readiness to save his team from defeat, moved heroically, with no thought for his body hitting the frozen goal line and calculating where my shot was going, went in completely the wrong direction!  As I fell, the ball was directly under me and span from under my chest, rolled idly across the line and stopped!  We won!  1-0!

That was my first….and last game for the school team…

Today’s crop of seemingly popular shoes see toes point to the sky and are way too long – for goodness sakes, some look like they should be on a pixie!  I see professionals striding about, heels down with toes forgetting where the ground is!  One thing did cross my mind though, they’d be perfect for that initial chip of a football from the ground for a game of ‘keepy-uppy’!  Despite me being a little heavy on my heels (hence the ‘clickies’ – metal), and, yes my toes do lift a little at the front, I’m not a pixie – nor do I have any desire to look like one – or in fact conform to present podiatry fashion…

It’s no secret that I’m no great dedicated follower of fashion…

I just want my shoes to be comfortable and reasonable looking; besides, I can hardly bury someone wearing mourning dress and a pair of clown shoes now can I?

Ah but there was a time though…  I was always a little awkward when it came to mum taking me for new clothing and shoes.  In truth, I’m not even certain I wasn’t just objecting to things that she suggested just for the sheer awkwardness of it.  That suggests that I was possibly an unappreciative brat who for no particular reason, wanted his own way.  I wasn’t that selfish though; mum just had a habit of wanting her little boy to be smart, as economically as possible – with four other siblings, her purse strings were often no doubt, stretched to breaking point.  And in all seriousness, I’m happy that she had.  Still, her idea of smart was a far cry from my own.  I still deny it was for the sake of trend or fashion.  I was far too young but come on, she picked some pretty naffy things, bless her.

Mum taught me a lesson.  We trundled about Newcastle one Saturday afternoon looking for school shoes.  If I’d tried one pair, I’d tried ten!  Eventually though we settled on a pair that I really liked.  Plain, black with a decent lace-up bridge.  I tried one on in the shop, even looked in the mirror.  The assistant, with the typical pressing down on the toes assured mum there would be plenty of life in them but not so much that they were an ill-fit; not too big.

Okay, now I’ve got what I want, let’s go home, or you just know I’m going to have to let you drag me around behind you, winging and whining for the rest of the day while you find something nice for yourself…  This sound familiar, mums?

Unless, of course, you let me wear my super new shoes right now!  Well that wasn’t going to happen it seemed.  It was time to apply more pressure…  There must have come a point where mum grew a little more than tired of my constant harping, and, while sitting in a cafe, she relented and said okay, I could wear my new shoes but they were to come straight off when I got home and should I scuff or dirty them, I’d go to school with only rags wrapped around my feet!  Right!  On with shoes!  A little more resistance was required by me to convince mum that I wanted to put them on myself, despite the fact that I was struggling at that time to learn to tie my laces properly – oh, yes, ashamed to say, it took me a long time to get the hang of that one!

By the time we arrived home that day, I thoroughly hated my shoes!  They felt awful and not at all as comfortable as one did in the shoe shop!  They hurt, they nipped at the ankle and I had a blister!  I had suspected that mum gave up a little too easy in letting me put my new shoes on myself.  She wasn’t stupid by any stretch.  She knew I couldn’t tie the laces….and that they were only tucked down the side of the shoes….she also knew I’d put the shoes on the wrong feet!

I straightened my tie, pulled

Despite the windows of the car being lashed with rain, and my vision therefore impaired, I found my client’s residence without too much trouble; only running past a few yards before noticing another door number greater than the one I was looking for – a quick reverse and I was there.  The windows of the house were illuminated with Christmas lights and some tinsel of sorts and colours.  The inside, behind the window’s seasonal accoutrements, glowed a subtle orange and gave an inviting and warm reassuring feel.  It’s common to find, when visiting bereaved clients at this time of year, that they still have Christmas decorations brightening up the home; it may well be for the sake of children, or for grand and perhaps even great-grandchildren.

Clutching at my brief case and locking the car, I made a hunched haste to the door and knocked; not impatiently for this was a time to appear calm, professional, pleasant and reassuring – my knock was slow, deliberate and moderate in weight; not at all a ‘policeman’s knock’.  Be upright and find strength – walking into someone’s misery at this time of year needs a purposely calm but pleasant, though not overly cheerful approach…  Given the weather though, I had no problem dropping the overly cheerfulness.

Friendly faces are very welcome sometimes during my working days.  I become so tired and I’m no lover of the winter so cold, rain, wind and a whole day behind me already, with still a few hours yet to work, add to my sometimes generally grumpy mood – to get through a full day is a hard enough job of work; cynicism, negativity, disrespect and a complete lack of morals sometimes surround me…it’s tough.  In fact the last few years has all but drained me of any hope for certain individuals; giving the benefit of the doubt and being patient is costly; my pockets, once full of grace and, ‘straight-over-my-headness’ have long since emptied…  I search them but alas, like the penniless hobo, I have nothing to quench my thirst or satisfy my appetite.  Oh, hang on, I think there’s a penny’s worth in there somewhere that I roll between my fingers now and then, just for my own sake.

So, friendly faces…  I was met at the door by a very welcoming smile.  An honest inviting gesture gave me hope and when entering my client’s warm, softly lit lounge, I felt all the better.  Odd that I should need very sad, very heartbroken, bereft individuals, brave and stoical, to lift my spirits.  I felt quite selfish and from that point there had to be a little boot kicking me up the backside to remind me how fortunate I was that this bereavement was not of my own…  How on Earth could I allow myself to be so pathetically self-pitying when all around me are people, who while dealing with the devastation of the loss of a loved one, can still stand up straight enough to greet and host me with pleasantness and respect – well, yeah, normal of course but in light of their trauma they would have every right to be miserable and withdrawn, no matter who was visiting?  Someone they didn’t know.  Someone who would very shortly be discussing very intimate details regarding their grief and pushing in their faces the very fact that death ‘has’ actually touched them.  It’s all the more real when the undertaker calls.  Still, they watered me with hot, sweet tea and even a biscuit.  My overcoat was taken from me and I was seated, quite comfortably in a velour-covered armchair in the corner.  Everyone settled, they waited….and wondered I’m sure.

This may surprise some of you but I never dive straight into my pocket for my pen and pop open my brief case.  If I can, I prefer to let the client family express themselves if they want to – a few words from me and many people feel they should tell the ‘how’ and ‘where’ of their loss.  I know this puts them at ease and with lots of ‘genuine’ eye contact and ‘genuine’ interest, I find it easier to glide into discussing their funeral wishes, and they find it easier to tell me.  I seem to spend around seventy per cent of the visit chatting through things without my paper and pen, gleaning almost all I need to know from this, then the remaining thirty per cent getting the scribble work done – or something like that…

I nursed my cup of tea and chatted quite easily with my client.  He was an elderly gent who had lost his good lady wife.  Surrounded in the lounge by his doting family, he seemed to enjoy our little bit of fellowship, as did I.  He was very matter-of-fact, and blessed with a very dry sense of humour, despite his loss, he was keeping his spirits high.  Eventually though I would pick up my pen and papers and having explained that I better start taking some formal details, we set aside the chit-chat.  Chit-chat that would ignite here and there as I asked of him all I needed to know.

I’d been with my client and his family for roughly an hour and it was  time I was drawing my appointment to a close.  In doing so, pens and paper were rested back in my case and once again, we shared a little small talk.  I always hope that by this time any of my clients are a lot more settled, relieved that arrangements will be looked after and that we’ve come to know one another just enough to build and leave a little reassurance that all would be taken care of.  Surprisingly, another family member, who, having made my first cup of tea, appeared with another, made just the way I like it – two sugars, plenty of milk…  During our chit-chat I’d learned that my client was very fond of his allotment, wherein he actually kept chickens.  His enthusiasm for all things ‘fowl’ tempted me to reflect and share a little story from my much younger days.

My eldest brother had a girlfriend.  Pretty normal, I know.  His girlfriend’s dad had an allotment and as we all got to know one another, I became particularly close to Stan – the girlfriend’s dad that is.  Because I was such a well-behaved, polite, good-mannered and cute little boy….no comments on that please….Stan would often let me help out with feeding his chickens, collecting the odd egg here and there and cleaning up the place.  Not only that but sometimes I’d help him, in my inexperienced though nevertheless eager determination, to turn over the soil before it was raked of weeds and stones, ready for seeding with something or other.  There was a greenhouse too that I often would help tidy and organise small pots of seedlings, etc.  I enjoyed the chickens mostly.  They can be quite manic when they want to be, more so when their feed is thrown down for them.  Wide-eyed, clucky and heads-a-nodding with every step, they humoured and fascinated me.  One of my favourite jobs was to put new straw – or hay, whatever it’s called into their little house.  There was a door just high enough to walk through and for Stan to crouch through, however, when this was closed, there was a little hatch with a latted ramp for the chickens to use.

For a time, after school, in the height of a warm, careless summer, I’d dash home to change then head straight to the allotment.  It was common knowledge among my friends that this was where I could be found.  Now and then, some of them would show up and hang around playing outside; Stan would never allow anyone else in there – understandable really, after all, it wasn’t a free-for-all.  And the likelihood was that eventually the novelty would wear off and I’d return to more childish antics and pursuits.  My visits though, were brought to an abrupt halt one afternoon when I arrived to find Stan in a terrible mood!  He was fuming and told me that I should just go home and that I couldn’t come along and help anymore.  I was devastated and very upset.  It turned out that someone else had been into the allotment and all but wrecked the place.  Most of the glass had been broken in the greenhouse, water barrels tipped over and damaged, keenly growing vegetables torn up, pots smashed and glass and nails filled the shed where the hens would sit to lay!  Stan had far fewer chickens too as someone had set them free to roam outside of the allotment – inevitably two or three of them had been scooped from the road where they’d wandered and been run over by traffic!  Stan’s pride and joy was in ruins…  My eldest brother was fuming too, hurling accusations my way, suggesting that I had done the malicious deed, or if not then my friends.  I’ll never forget the intense feeling of disappointment and shame that I felt for something I never did.  My reputation for mischief spread throughout the village but it was harmless mischief, not malicious.  My mischief was never destructive or harmful, I had never been a destructful child – the worst I’d ever done was to damage my own toys in games.

I always intended to try to explain to Stan that I was completely innocent of any wrong-doing in this matter, however, me being but a child and him a big, strapping, angry grown up old man, it would have me struggling to convince him that I played no part…  Times change, girlfriends change, life changes….some years later, in my teens, I learned that Stan had died.  I doubt much later on whether he would even recognise me but the sad thing was, if he ever looked back, he was never sure that I hadn’t let him down.

My client reassured me that these things happened and that from time to time, certain malicious characters do this kind of thing.  He then went on to recall times when pigeon-fanciers had their lofts damaged and their pigeons hurt.  It seems that allotments, being easily accessible and ‘soft’ targets, have always suffered damage.  He himself had experienced trouble in his own once or twice in the past.

We talked a little about the chickens; ‘hens’ he called them.  I told him of my fascination with the eggs that had been popped out, he told me of the little rubber eggs he would place to encourage his hens to lay.  I told him about some beautiful little baby chicks that just looked so wonderfully cute….  I asked him, and then took a sip of my tea, “do you get many hatchlings?”
“Why would I?”, he said….
“I don’t have a cock!”

It took at least five minutes for my client’s daughter to wipe down my shirt and jacket where the tea I had just sipped sprayed from my mouth in huge vortices and cascaded out of my nostrils as I choked on the stuff!

I left my client and his family and as I did, they were chuckling…  I sat reminiscing later that evening…confused.  Then I thought, ‘….of course.  Oh, I’m so slow at times….’

Bless…

On my desk at the office I have a desk tidy – or for the uninitiated, a pen pot.  More often than not the pen pot is systematically raided and often I’ll return to my desk to find it empty!  I then do what is more than expected of me and strop about hunting down my pens and pencil; my pencil especially.  They can often be found resting somewhere else in the office other than where they should be!

Other items of my office ‘tools’ such as erasers, stapler and pencil sharpener at one time or another have migrated to other locations around the office too.  For this reason, a good long while ago, I felt the urge to put little stickers on everything and marked them, ‘Bert’s this and ‘Bert’s’ that…  Everything but the pencil had a sticker.  The pencil I’d painted with a smooth, narrow strip of tipex.  When dry, I wrote in pen along the pencil, ‘Bert’s Pencil’.  Christened ‘Bert’ by a colleague long since gone, the name, however, stuck.  Not one for liking my name shortened,  I quite liked this nickname and have since become quite attached to it.  Anyway…

A few days since, I once again found my beloved pencil missing from the pen pot.  Although quite a bit shorter with use, as you’d expect, and the tipex flaking with age, I was still a little disgruntled that it had been usurped!  No matter where I looked, it couldn’t be found and no culprit was forthcoming.  It was with a heavy heart that I decided to give up the hunt and procure a nice new pencil.  I took care to sharpen the new tool, paint a strip of tipex and inscribe it with my ‘name’, then placed it proudly into my pen pot.  Content now and mourning for my old aging pencil was short-lived…

It was the tipex that reminded me of something much earlier in my career when I once had occasion to dab a tipex brush on the end of my nose…  Have you tried to pick dried tipex from your skin?  Almost impossible without removing some of the skin too – for over a week I had a patch of sore and red skin right on the tip of my beak!  Remembering this brought something else to mind.  Something else from way back.

A short time before every Christmas period in our home, mum and dad would give then ceilings a coat of fresh silk emulsion paint.  The walls would be painted whatever colour took mum and dad’s fancy – except for those times when the walls were clad in something disgusting, like a burgundy-flowered flock paper.  The skirting boards would more often than not received a lick of brilliant white gloss paint too…

Now often is the case that the odd pot of paint would be left out in the corner of the yard, or the little utility shed next to the coal house and the outside loo.  Oldish pots with ill-fitting lids and long-since dried runs down the sides.  On removing the lid, the white paints inside took on a brownish hue as linseed oil rose to the surface.  This could easily be stirred with a stick and the paint made good for use once again.  We always had old pots of paint tucked somewhere and this was no surprise as my eldest brother was a decorator by trade…

Once particular boxing day we small ones found ourselves out in the yard.  I remember this distinctly because one of my presents was an Evil Knievel action doll complete with stunt motorcycle – this could be made to shoot off by means of a cord that was ripped through the back-end of the bike, winding up the internals to spin the back wheel.  I wanted to make some ramps from old pieces of wood…which I did.  I wanted to paint them too…which I did.  Of course I would never be allowed to tinker with gloss so my application had to be somewhat stealthy…

Impatiently waiting for the paint to dry on my wonderful ramps, and wishing I hadn’t painted them after all because it was taking an age – naturally – one of my sisters decided to walk on past and while threatening to spill the beans on my painting activities, tapped one of my makeshift ramps with the toe of her shoe!  The ramp made contact with the paint pot which tilted quickly, however, coming to rest safely but  not without first ‘sloshing’ – is that a word? – a little of the paint which actually coated part of my brand new Evil Knievel bike!  I was furious!  I grabbed at the pot and with a flinging motion, though still firmly in my hand, drenched sis in white gloss paint!  Not satisfied that this was enough retribution, I thrust my little hand in the pot and while wrestling with a paint-covered sibling, who was beginning to imitate a banshee, I drove the palm of my hand and, as best as I could manage, covered as much of her face and hair as possible!

Boxing day.  A brother and sister stood in the yard, in the dry, freezing cold, in their underwear whilst seething parents scrubbed away sticky, brilliant-white gloss paint!  A white Christmas after all…

There have been times when I’ve thought I should just give up and shelve my mischievous and sometimes melancholic musings, however, despite my stats taking a nosedive very recently, I do notice that this little collection has gathered over seventeen thousand page views, I guess I feel duty bound to continue aggravating you with tales of tinkerdom and trouble!  So, just as soon as I can muster the energy to delve into my momentarily sunken enthusiasm, I’ll regale you with more antics…  I have some drafted posts waiting which include an accident due to nose hair, chickens nesting on nails, a dead priest, a green grocer, a caretaker in a dress, a sandwich stealing tramp, my troublesome shoe laces and many more besides…  So if you’ve given up valuable time to glance for updates, thank you and God Bless.

Happy Birthday, Blog!  Cheers!

Back then in my childhood, Blutak didn’t exist and so ceiling streamer decorations would be attached to the corners of the room with drawing pins – this would mean that after Christmas, the ceiling would need to be re-painted to hide the pin holes – sticky tape just never worked and on the odd occasion it was tried it just pulled more paint away…

The best bit though was the Christmas tree.  Tinsel, baubles, advent chocolates and lights.

These days Christmas tree lights can be purchased a reasonable cost and can have multiple settings; flashing, blinking, fading in, fading out, etc…  Our lights lasted for years and we had the same tree for just as long; it no doubt became more ragged as the years passed, nevertheless, it was so exciting!  Our lights had two settings, constant and flashing.  They plugged straight into the wall with no other control than the wall plug, and they would heat up so much that they would never be left on when we all retired to bed or went out of the house.

One of the toughest jobs was to ensure that the lights were untangled.  No matter how much care was taken when they were taken down and stored away after each season, when they reappeared, they were always in knots.  We had spare multi-coloured bulbs too but the most important was the ‘flasher’.

As excitement grew during the nestling of lights into branches, our little lungs held in breath for the big switch on!  Only one question on our lips though, “Dad, dad!  Have you got the flasher?”

“Yes I’ve got the flaming flasher!”

Never sure what’s worse, self assembly furniture or putting up a Christmas tree!?  Well worth it though…

Advent and the sharing

The second chicken to have me almost choking on my tongue with laughter was the poor creature featured in one of my most favourite films, Withnail and I.  If you haven’t seen then you must!  The first chicken just happened to suffer, after probably an undignified short life in some factory environment, further demeaning when in my mischievous infancy, I decided to carry the bird mum had only just so proudly prepared to the dinner table!  I thought I was helping!  Of course, I had not the length of leg that I have now so straining up to the kitchen worktop   to reach the platter on which the chicken sat was a big mistake…  Just as I slid the plate away from the bench, the thing, greased and still hot, flew from the plate and shot onto the floor!  The meat was soft and legs and wings detached, while the torso opened on impact and spread about the fluffy but hard-wearing carpet that clad the kitchen floor!  We never had turkey because a decent chicken was an awful lot less expensive…

After much flinching and crouching to avoid being skinned alive, the chicken was, in a fashion, refashioned and picked over for fluff and dirt.  In one respect it was fortunate that the nicely crisp, bronzed skin could be peeled away, hence doing away with any deposits from the floor…

Satisfied that it was indeed edible, seated and ready to tuck in, our pre-feast, Christmas prayers were spoken something like:

Dad:  “…loving God, we give thanks for this table…”

Robert:  “Oh, can I have the wishbone?”

Dad, stops and stares a frosty stare that saw me sink further into my seat…

Dad:  “…loving God, we give thanks for this table…..and for arms that aren’t long enough to reach across it and strangle a little someone if I hear another peep out of him!”

I chewed, quietly humming Steeleye Span’s rendition of Gaudete…

I Had a conversation recently

The need to reminisce at ten years of age doesn’t quite have the same attraction as it might do much later on in life.  At that early age the cares and concerns of the [slightly] older generation haven’t quite begun to distract us from simple pleasures and the worry-free state that we’re in.  So before puberty and the gradual juvenescent realisation that more serious challenges wait on us, things are usually not worth concerning ourselves with.  We’ve no need to reminisce because we’re enjoying ourselves.  We might not feel a hankering for a care-free past and bathe in more pleasant memories to console us in heartbreak, penury or ill-health.  At times during adulthood though, we may find solace in closing our eyes and imagining that we’re back there in that colorful and seamlessly happy land of childhoodshire…  Pre-pubescent youth provokes the come-what-may attitude; it can take a brave and honest adult to say that with any conviction.

Puberty wasn’t ever a word that I’d given any great discourse to,  I mean, why should I have ever?  But puberty’s stealthy and deliberate, inevitable onset couldn’t be arrested; its irreversible path is a determined one and in some cases, an odd crafter – nudging our bodies here and there into slowly noticeable changes.  As well as physical changes it plays croquet with our psychology too – knocking our thoughts and feelings through one hoop to another – but I’m not sure ever-pleasant.  The benefits of the pleasure of post-puberty come later, however, the pleasures come at a cost.  In an attempt to stave off either fruitiness or maudlin thoughts (I’m not sure which at the moment), I’ll move on…

Gradually we begin to care about how we look, ensuring that we’re properly bathed, our teeth are clean, our clothes are tidy and relatively fashionable and that we smell nice.  We see changes and wonder at some, while reeling with fright at others.  For instance, acne and blackheads; although I suffered neither.  Hair begins to grow in certain places and you’re either proud because you can almost trip on it, or you’re just simply embarrassed that you don’t have enough!  Either way, I’ve always found it annoying, untidy and a chore to groom to an acceptable neatness.  “Mum, mum!  Look under my arms!  My stuffing’s coming out!”  Which I thought was quite funny until she questioned with an odd curiosity, “many down there yet?”  Shrink and look for a hole to swallow me up!  And what on Earth was this Adam’s Apple I was supposed to be growing??  For me though, those occurrences came a little later on (as far as I’m concerned); staying reasonably smooth and hair-free long after some of my peers were sprouting – I’m still not the most hirsute of men now!

Just a little later on, tummy-flips and wracking brains as to whether holding hands was enough or whether one day, we might even dare move in for a kiss!?  How does that work though?  Perhaps I was a little fortunate in that department, however, that’s a whole other blog post…  The real problem though, was summoning the nerve to make that move; you’d either pine and spend dreamy nights waiting for the next one, or you’d simply have to log rejection and learn from it – grow a thicker skin and a suitably hardy bounce-back policy…

Now don’t be thinking I’m bordering on rude but it goes without saying that before I get to the main point of this post, I mention the….**looks both ways and whispers**…ess, ee, ex, word.  Yeah, sex.  What on Earth was all that about?  In old Sunday Matinees on television, men poured out sweet nothings and made violent love their women!  Seemed simple enough…  Grab a girl, press your lips on her face and keep them there motionless for about twenty seconds!  Bingo!  She’s in love with you and will cook, clean, raise the children and sew things for you.  What an absolutely fabulous prospect!  My tongue is firmly in-cheek, I assure you.  The earliest stirrings I ever had been knowing I had a stirring while kissing only to wonder why?  Felt nice but at that point it never occurred to me where it was supposed to go??  Okay, enough of that.

The whole point to this post is to share with you the fact that I was the proud owner of a breast.  Yes, a breast.  It was sore, it would have been large enough to nestle in a small brazier and my nipple would swell agonisingly.  Now this was almost pre, pre-pubescent.  Far far too early for my age.  Perhaps my wrong-gender-placed mammary gland can make up for the boasting rights I’d have lost on the lack of pubic hair?  Erm, don’t think so…wrong sex for a start.  All I was, was parodied and pained.  With a family full of adolescents, my titty soon became public knowledge and often through that very painful time people would ask for a look – obviously not serious, just more to demean me and make fun of me.  Mum though, took it seriously enough to worry and take me to the doctor, who assured us that this was a common occurrence in young males and could be a pre-cursor to puberty.  I longed for a muscular frame and at least a tad of callipygian form…

Hardly made me feel better!

Wrapped inside the most

I was sat in my first eldest sister’s new home.  A very well converted farm-house with all mod cons.  A fire burned idly in a range that whilst practical and useful then, would only be humored as ornamental now….or retro-decoration.  My sister, quite foolishly had left me in the flat alone while she set out to meet her best friend Barbara at the bus stop not too far away – surely not that far that her little brother could ever have time to cause havoc…?  Barbara was coming to see the new home for the first time, and, as my sister and her friend hadn’t been together for a good long while, they were to catch up on gossip and exchange what each other had been up to.

Proudly my sister had lavished money, sparing no expense on the decor, especially the carpets and the rooms she had put so much into were her pride and joy.  I was there simply because she used to get a little lonely and a little anxious about being on her own, especially at night; although what I could have possibly done to deter any horrors in the night is beyond me – you’d almost certainly find me cowering under a bed or in a cupboard somewhere in the building.  Nevertheless, we were closer than close and she always wanted her little brother around her.  Our favourite thing was to cuddle up on the sofa with pop and sweets, paying no attention to the old black and white television that would only be on to fill up the air at the other side of the room with noise, perhaps to keep that space company – or maybe just that between our chattering we cold stare at it.  We’d play Scissors, paper, stone, or Slaps (ask me if you don’t know), word association games, rubbing and pressing our tummies in the hope we could compete in a trouser cough competition, you know, silliness like that.  She would sometimes run through lists of words, which at times could take a while, until one would prompt me to make up a story….once started, we’d take it in turn to each add a paragraph.  We’d travelled the World, enjoyed the riches of the famous, lived in the most exotic places, shared wild and dangerous adventures, admonished many a foe on Earth and in Space and flown over far off places on the backs of dragons until ideas and thoughts were exhausted….then we’d rest.

Whilst she was out collecting Barbara, I decided to stoke the fire in the range, causing just about the whole burning, seething content of the grate to come flowing out, like some angry, spitting flow of lava and burning such huge holes into ridiculously expensive, new carpets. The only thing she could do when she came in to find me sobbing, with a blackened face and burning fingers – carpets smouldering – and after she’d added her stamping to smother that which still glowed,  was to squeeze me in, cradle my head and calm me down.

Eventually she would threaten to kill me – precisely one week later when I let the bath run over and the electricity cut out!