I think that I had stopped talking. It wasn’t a conscious decision, not one logically worked out, but something that just arrived one morning and then stayed for the rest of the day, and the day after and the day after that – you get it? It was before the world went quiet. Before I started to notice that the rooms on my corridor were no longer filled with the mumble of familiar voices, snores or farts. I thought that this must be what it was like to be dead, consigned to spend time wandering those places that had occupied your life. I don’t know where that thought had come from. It wasn’t like me to get all existential or suchlike. I would probably be older before I began to care about my place in the universe. At that particular moment in time I was just a teenage Sandham boy who had taken to boarding as a way of getting away from certain problems at home. Problems which I often just forgot about when other minutiae filled the space.
We were good with problems. All of us who were not neuros were frequently experiencing problems, some on a day to day basis. Things like putting the same coloured socks together and not getting them mixed up with anyone else’s. My mother said that socks were the bane of her life and that was it, they suddenly became the bane of mine. There’s a character from a play by William Shakespeare that is called Macbeth. It’s a play, although we did the graphic novel, about a man who so much wants to be King that he kills everyone around him. He killed the real king so that he could sit on his throne and then he went on to kill a load of other people only because he thought that they suspected him of killing the king. His wife, Mrs Macbeth forced him to do this. He ended up being killed by the English and a bloke called Donalbane, or Donald Bane, took the throne whilst his wife threw herself from the castle walls. We read the ‘graphic novel’ and out teacher tried to explain some of it to us, but the words didn’t always mean what they appeared to mean and many of them meant an awful lot more. No wonder why talking is the most confusing form of communication. And still I deviate.
Procrastination: is the act of delaying or putting off something that is normally of significant importance (at least to the person who is avoiding it).