There is an optimum time for dunking biscuits. Everybody knows that. If you take them out too soon they remain hard and unappetising. If you leave them in the brown murky liquid too long they become soft, they disintegrate, they fall apart. There’s an optimum time for leaving home too. Depart too early you’re unprepared, green, and abrasive. However if you leave home too late then you are soft. I refuse to be seen as soft. I refuse to be seen as a mummy’s boy.
16. Funny age. I can still get on the bus for half price. I can get through the football turnstiles as a youth, then go the pub and have a pint. Grow up! Don’t cry! Be a man! Stop acting childish! You can’t judge a book by its cover, but you can check it’s publication date.
Sitting in the park alone, perched on my dad’s old suitcase. Perhaps it was this case that he packed when he left his childhood home. Times were different then. There was a war. He left to serve. King and Country. No war now. Still loss and misery. I let a tear go. Warm and wet. Did he cry too? Conscript or volunteer? Is there really choice and free will? When it’s time to go, whatever the reason, you can’t ignore the old father. They say the grass is always greener on the other side. But I know the greenest grass attracts sheep. I am not a sheep. I am a boy. I am a man. Am I Steve?
In the park at 5am. It’s not dark nor light, its neither night nor morning. Am I moving from or moving to? My legs are slightly parted, covered in pimples. Each hair angrily strikes upwards to trap air, The blotchy effect on my skin mimicking the pattern on mum’s red dress which doesn’t go past my bare knees. It must be the right time. My old bedroom is blue not pink. Blue in mood and blue in emotion. It seethes expectation of my maturation. Be a man, don’t cry!
A month ago, mum left home. In a mahogany carriage. It was her time. She had grown thin and pale. Washy, like weak tea. A soft faltering voice could no longer chastise. Consumption consumed her. First her fat and muscles. Her stubborn wheezy breath chiming the decline. At last the eyes becoming dimmer and more watery. Closing. Full stop. No more.
I am not my dad. He is hard. A factory worker. He is like the steel he forges. I ask him if I can. He says I can’t. I ask why. He says “Because I said so”. No need for explanation. It’s just the way things are. He is bigger than me. I have to just get on with it. It is his voice I hear in my head. And I cannot be my mum. It’s against the rules. Boys become their dad, girls become their mum.
5.30am. The buses start at 6. I have my correct change in mum’s purse. It is getting lighter and the sun will shine a spotlight on me. The thing in the red dress. And black heels. 16 and not yet shaving. 16 and voice unbroken. Adam’s apple not yet prominent. Less Adam more Eve. More madam and less Steve. A red dawn arriving and a red Dawn emerging. Dad will be getting up now. He won’t notice the empty bed in the blue room. Things to be done. Clock on at 6 and work ’til 4. Working to the tune of hard metal. The day broken up with pickle and Spam. No sissies amongst the brothers in arms.
6.00am. The bus is on time. I’m standing on the pavement with my arm outstretched. I indicate, it indicates and pulls over to swallow me up. The conductor approaches. It is full fare today. The first time. Dawn isn’t a girl, she is a woman. Not off to the school nor to the stadium now. 4 pence to the railway station. I have the right money. The conductor gives me a sneer or a leer, I only want from him the ticket. Print it, whir it, click it. I blush – the colour of my dress. Judgement is real. It can be felt, it can be expressed, it can be experienced. The transaction is done. The transition continues.
Alighting at the station my eyes are fixed ahead. Just one more ticket to purchase. One more ticket, one way. I am going to where the streets are paved with gold. Where Steve can be Dawn, and pink can be blue. Where the only judges are those with wigs, and all else in wigs are not judged. I will swap the colliery brass band for The Kinks, and my cotton and nylon for satin and denim. I will exchange servitude and duty for the chance to fail, the chance to be free.
6.30am. I am on the train. A half empty carriage full of half empty people. The sun has now climbed fully over the horizon. It is shining brightly through the carriage window. It is shining on triumph in a red dress. A new bright Dawn. A new bright start.
The doctor gave me 4 months to live, so I shot him.
Judge gave me 20 years.
6:30 is definitely the best time on a clock…
Hands down.
We live in uncaring society. I was in the park the other day watching an old man feed the birds, and after a while I thought to myself, “I wonder how long he’s been dead.”
I met my girlfriend at an arthritis support group…you know when two people just click?
I was born to be a pessimist.
My blood type is B Negative.
I can’t get enough minimalism.
What do you call a Welsh singer who never gets lost?
Tomtom Jones.
A bunch of batteries were gathering around in a circle.
I guess they were having an AA-meeting.
What do you call your average ancient Greek?
Mediocrates.
How do you deal with a sad astronaut?
Just give them some space.
I started my own all natural fertilizer company recently.
I’ve got this friend called Joe. He’s a real film fanatic, he streams movies nearly every night and watches all the latest releases. However, he hates scary movies, but this is the weird thing…. when he signs into Netflix, something strange happens! On the opening screen of Netflix are all the films he loves to watch – the bright, happy, action-packed movies. The ones with the happy endings. The ones that make him feel good.
But for some reason Joe feels compelled to scroll down past these movies and go to the end of the categories until he comes to where all the horror films are listed. Joe doesn’t want to watch these films as he knows they will upset him, and make him feel scared and sad. But each evening he ends up choosing one these films to stream…. his choice. He draws the curtains and lowers the lights to make it just that little bit more scary. He can hardly bare to watch the horror – yet he still does.
He goes home with dread most evenings knowing that he will play these scary films over and over again. And of course, the next morning he starts the day with a heavy heart and a feeling of dread. He never seems to learn. He forgets he can choose which films to play.
Fake news!
Our subconscoious mind is the mind of a 6 year old. It does not know the difference between what is real and what is not! That is the very reason why we watch films …. when we are playing a movie our subconscious views it as though it were really happening and tells our body how to respond. If it is a scary movie, the mind will instruct the body to produce a whole load of adrenaline to prepare us for fight or flight! But hey, this is just a movie – it is FAKE NEWS!
Our subconscious also views all our experiences, whether memories from the past, or musing of what is yet to come, as movies. Real life is documentary, and the future imagined is fantasy. When we imagine what will happen in the future, to prepare ourselves for what is to come, we naturally will play a movie in our mind. However, it is fake news as it has yet to happen. So play a bright and happy movie when you imagine what is to come and you will feel better for it – don’t be like Joe and get drawn in to the horror section!
A year ago, a young family moved next door to me with an adorable six year old child. Like all six year old boys, he doted on his parents and believed everything they said. He believed in the tooth fairy and Father Christmas.
They had moved in September and soon after whilst chatting over the fence his mum told me about the boy’s first day at school. He was a quiet and shy child and didn’t mix well and was prone to getting embarrassed when being the centre of attention.
She told me that as they walked to school, to prepare him for his first day in a new school that she warned him what was likely to happen. She said to him that he would have to stand up in front of the whole class, introduce himself and tell all the other unknown boys and girls about his life.
She warned him that when he stood up and opened his mouth he was likely to stutter and stammer and his mind would go blank because he was just like her and that’s what they “do”. He was likely to go bright red and silent, and all the other boys and girls would probably laugh at him so he may sit down in tears.
Feeling content that she had warned him, she kissed him goodbye and watched him walk away with a tear in her eye.
Later, when she collected him from the school gate, the first thing her son said was “Mum, you knew EXACTLY what would happen…and it did!”
The mum smiled and cuddled him, knowing that she had prepared him well.
Epilogue.
The next year his dad took him to school. Dad believed in a different form of preparation and said to the son that he would have to stand up in front of the class and tell all the other boys and girls about his summer holidays. This time when he stood up he would beam with excitement because he’d had the best holiday and would talk confidently about himself because the children would all love to hear his tales.
Funnily enough, when his dad collected him from the school gates, the boy was amazed, and said “Dad, you knew EXACTLY what would happen….and it did!”
The dad smiled and cuddled him, knowing that he had prepared him well.
