mean I’ll never realise my potential as a human being past this point, I will never know what it feels like to take my first trip to the seaside behind the wheel of my own car, to buy my first home, to have a child, to witness another Labour government, to truly become acquainted with the ways of a woman, to stare on in wonder at the simplicity yet effectiveness of the format of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? (a game show currently over fifteen years away from even being conceived), but frankly I don’t care because it would also mean that I’m never going to have to face the school gates pummelling that’s most definitely coming my way in what’s now just a couple of hours. Please God, out of the two options I am more than happy to sacrifice all of the former for even the slightest chance of the latter.
Amen.’
Time may sometimes seem like it stands still but the clouds and the clocks tell us it doesn’t. Perhaps a moment is as close as we ever get. Maybe a moment is the stillness between the ticking of time, the bridge over the river, if you like, the halfway house between the now and the then.
For me this stillness is usually enough and I have learnt to enjoy such ‘moments’, diving into them and pushing them apart to make them last aslong as possible, but back then, in the early Eighties, sat in front of that television, in that classroom, there was no such pleasure to be had, time was very much against me.
Acceptance though is often liberation. ‘Let go, let go, let, go,’ I said to myself and as I did so miraculously my prayers were answered.
Unconsciously, as I was sat on the floor, I began to stroke the carpet tiles—partly I suppose for some kind of self-soothing, contemplative comfort, like a wise man might stroke his chin or a dog might lick his private parts, and partly I suppose out of resignation, my resignation to the fact that, whichever way I looked at it, my goose was cooked—I was a dead man walking.
I continued to brush my right hand, palm down, across the carpet in a thoughtful arcing motion, half contemplating the wonder of what was taking place across the Atlantic, half wondering whether the mad kid was going to start killing me by punching me in the stomach or in the face first and whether I would bother trying to defend myself or just let him get it over and done with. But, as these thoughts danced around my consciousness, I found myself becoming distracted, distracted by something on the floor, something under my right hand. There was a bump in the carpet.
It felt like there was something running under the texture of the weave. I ceased my stroking and lifted my hand so I could see what it was, but there was nothing there.
‘Strange,’ I thought. I checked again—the carpet tile was dark brown and quite hard to see so I leant down this time to get a little closer but, nope, there was definitely nothing to report.
I resumed my self soothing, running my hand across the carpet but again I felt the bump, almost immediately this time. Again I looked to see what it was, but again nothing. Was I going mad? It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, I was under a great deal of schoolboy stress at the time—maybe my mind had had enough of me and wanted out.
I went to stroke the carpet a third time and whatever it was, blow me it was still there; it may have been invisible but it was definitely still there. What on earth was it? And then I noticed my hand, the hand that had been doing the stroking—the three outer fingers looked like they were swollen and quite severely—not only this but they appeared to be slightly blue.
I became confused and felt the vague undertones of blind panic begin to set in. Upon further inspection, I turned my hand over and there, revealed, was the source of the mystery, a lump in my palm, the size of a golf ball.
This time, I had broken myself.
My one punch to the chin of the angry kid had been too much for my soft, little round knuckles to take,
Amen.’
Time may sometimes seem like it stands still but the clouds and the clocks tell us it doesn’t. Perhaps a moment is as close as we ever get. Maybe a moment is the stillness between the ticking of time, the bridge over the river, if you like, the halfway house between the now and the then.
For me this stillness is usually enough and I have learnt to enjoy such ‘moments’, diving into them and pushing them apart to make them last aslong as possible, but back then, in the early Eighties, sat in front of that television, in that classroom, there was no such pleasure to be had, time was very much against me.
Acceptance though is often liberation. ‘Let go, let go, let, go,’ I said to myself and as I did so miraculously my prayers were answered.
Unconsciously, as I was sat on the floor, I began to stroke the carpet tiles—partly I suppose for some kind of self-soothing, contemplative comfort, like a wise man might stroke his chin or a dog might lick his private parts, and partly I suppose out of resignation, my resignation to the fact that, whichever way I looked at it, my goose was cooked—I was a dead man walking.
I continued to brush my right hand, palm down, across the carpet in a thoughtful arcing motion, half contemplating the wonder of what was taking place across the Atlantic, half wondering whether the mad kid was going to start killing me by punching me in the stomach or in the face first and whether I would bother trying to defend myself or just let him get it over and done with. But, as these thoughts danced around my consciousness, I found myself becoming distracted, distracted by something on the floor, something under my right hand. There was a bump in the carpet.
It felt like there was something running under the texture of the weave. I ceased my stroking and lifted my hand so I could see what it was, but there was nothing there.
‘Strange,’ I thought. I checked again—the carpet tile was dark brown and quite hard to see so I leant down this time to get a little closer but, nope, there was definitely nothing to report.
I resumed my self soothing, running my hand across the carpet but again I felt the bump, almost immediately this time. Again I looked to see what it was, but again nothing. Was I going mad? It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, I was under a great deal of schoolboy stress at the time—maybe my mind had had enough of me and wanted out.
I went to stroke the carpet a third time and whatever it was, blow me it was still there; it may have been invisible but it was definitely still there. What on earth was it? And then I noticed my hand, the hand that had been doing the stroking—the three outer fingers looked like they were swollen and quite severely—not only this but they appeared to be slightly blue.
I became confused and felt the vague undertones of blind panic begin to set in. Upon further inspection, I turned my hand over and there, revealed, was the source of the mystery, a lump in my palm, the size of a golf ball.
This time, I had broken myself.
My one punch to the chin of the angry kid had been too much for my soft, little round knuckles to take,
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