Not yet proofed but it makes me feel good to let it breathe.
PS I don’t want Stephen King stealing it.
Perchance to dream…
On the night after I had seen the carnage of the woodpigeon, I dreamt that I was flying through the sky on a night that was not lit by a helpful moon. I dreamt that I was in a race against something that was intent upon not just beating me but on destroying me. All of my senses were straining at the edge of my being as I swooped to the left and the right, ascended and descended, strained and prayed. And still my nemesis was close behind me.
My normal plan of defence in situations like this is to curl up into a ball, a foetal position. That’s the position that we are in for a good number of months before we are dragged, screaming into the world. Mum told me that I was a late baby, ‘very late’ my dad added. Mum said that if the midwife, the woman who drags babies out from the womb, had not been so insistent I would probably have stayed in there over winter – and perhaps beyond. It took a number of months for them to realise that I was not like my sister. Apart from being a girl, and apart from having blondish hair and being a couple of years older than me, we were very different. I took months before I could make eye-contact. I would look at the ceiling, at the mobile above my cot, at the walls of my room, but never would I make eye-contact with the woman I came from, nor anyone else. This became concerning for Mum, but Dad brushed it off. Mum asked the doctor, but he also brushed it off. I wasn’t making eye-contact and I wasn’t making the goo-goo sounds that kids made and I wouldn’t let my mother feed me from her tits. Even I could have worked out that there was something wrong with me. I think that they thought that whatever was wrong would just go away; if you ignored something for long enough, it goes away (false beliefs).
So, I had to wait until I was approaching my third year that somebody had the nerve to test me. I call it nerve because everyone had been tiptoeing around the problem as if it was a dirty secret. Lots of the lads at school have dirty secrets but it’s not my place to discuss them. Me, instead of having a dirty secret, was the dirty secret. And even though by that time I had developed the capacity to look at people in the eye (though I never got breast-fed again), other members of my extended family found it impossible to look me straight in the eye. When my aunties bent to kiss me on the cheek, they focused their attentions on the middle-distance which may have accounted for them making air-kisses that always missed the landing zone. I was a snotty baby in those days with a continuous cold and angry cheeks. Indeed, I was a super-spreader before super-spreaders were ever invented. At Christmas, the would bring my sister and me presents and I would give a very personalised one back to them, that would last for a number of weeks. It was sort of the gift that took a time to stop giving. I haven’t seen my aunties in the flesh for many years post-snothood.