My Grandfather is dying. Regular readers of this blog will know that my paternal Grandfather died many years ago when I was a small child. He was no great loss to the world. Now though, my other Grandfather is dying. And he will be.

In fact, he's been ill for a while with numerous ailments, some exacerbated by the meds needed for others in a vicious and undeserved circle of pain that might make a less sanguine man than myself very fucking angry at the world.

As I type these words, the prevailing opinion, which I just learned from my sister this evening, seems to be that this particular visit to the hospital - the most recent of many - will be the one he doesn't come home from.

I saw my Grandfather once, a few months ago, when he seemed a little 'out there', in a vaguely comical way (I know, I know) but before that it had been years, and then years again before that. Twice in something like 15 years. Life just got in the way and I never had the time.

Bullshit. I had the time, I just didn't take the time. And now, as the end comes closer, everyone in my family (many of whom have had less contact with him than I have, though I'm not using that to justify my own actions) is flocking to his bedside, showing their concern and acting all , well, family like.

I want to go and see him. Or rather, I want to want to go and see him. Honestly though, I really don't. He is, by all acounts, totally out of it. He wouldn't even know I was there. Apparantly my Mother (spit), who is one of those who has seen him less than me, and ripped him off for a substantial sum the last time she did, visited him yesterday and he didn't know who she was. That being the case, if he is getting nothing out of it, I would be doing nothing more than making a token appearance for the sake of, well, appearances. Seems hypocritical to me.

My biggest worry though is that I'm not entirely sure how to behave around my Grandmother. I'm not particularly upset, you see. I don't 'do' grief or sorrow or any of those emotions you are supposed to feel at a time like this. Believe me, I now how cold that makes me sound. I want to feel something, I just can't. I don't have it in me. So do I show up and stand around awkwardly,looking like I don't give a shit, purely to salve a guilty conscience I think I should have? How does that help her? Or him? Or anyone?

I love the guy, I really do. So far as I am capable. He's one of the very few people in this world, family or no, for whom I have any genuine affection at all. And yet...

You know the worst part? The part that I feel so shit about? The bit that honestly, truly, makes me hate myself just a little bit? It's that I know full well that my life won't change a bit when he does die. I won't cry, I won't break down, I won't grieve. I'll go on as before. I'll be watching my shows and reading my comics and going about my business 5 minutes after I get the news. I don't want to say I won't care, because I don't want to believe it of myself but in truth...

If nothing else, he has had one effect on me. For years I have gone through life, happy in my own little world, able to pretend that I'm normal. Able to forget, or at least intellectualise and accept, the coldness inside me. He is making me confront the truth about myself full on. And I don't think I like me very much.

Hell, my Grandad is dying and I've just written 600 words. About me.

First day at a new school.

While moving away from the village I'd lived in all my life and the separation of my parents meant that things were a little bit up in the air I was coping pretty well, thanks to my sociopathic inability to give a toss about anything. Which was just as well, because things would get a whole lot more messed up before much longer. Indeed, from this point on, my life and the lives of my family would come to resemble more and more a bizarre soap opera, thanks in large part to my Mothers love life. In fact, scrap that; her sex life.

That was all still to come though. (Something for you to look forward to.) In the meantime, first order of business in our new environment, was to get us signed up in a new school.

Now, you know how, in todays modern urban sprawl lots of little villages are kind of melding together thanks to new estates being tacked onto the boundaries so the gap between gets smaller and smaller until eventually they meet in the middle and no-one really knows where one ends and the other begins anymore? Well, that was the case with the little village we'd moved to. Sunnybrow, it was called, and it had about 9 streets to it's name. It was conjoined (I've never used that word in any other context than bad taste jokes about genetic deformities. This felt like the time.) with a slightly larger but still pretty insignificant village called Willington. I say was; it still is. Probably more so now than then. The fact that I haven't been there in years doesn't mean it's ceased to exist. Unless the voices are telling the truth and the world really is all about me. That seems unlikely though, so I'll go with the theory that it's still there.

Anyway, Sunnybrow and Willington. There was much talk between my Mother and the dynamic duo of Mickie and Maurice as to where the best school was. It was decided that we (me and my Sis) would be sent to Sunnybrow Primary. Makes sense right? So the new week rolled around and Monday morning dawned and off we went. Along the old train track past the woods, over the road and hey presto, school.

Not Sunnybrow Primary though. Once again the random whims of my Mother would trip me up because after the hours of debate that led to the decision, she had apparently changed her mind and enrolled us in Chapel Street Primary, situated in Willington. Without telling us.

Chapel Steet. Seats are after my time.

So on my first day I get into a very embarrassing argument wherein I adamantly insist that we were in Sunnybrow, to the mockery of all the other kids who knew they were in Willington. Teacher interference was required before I'd accept defeat.

But that's not the story I planned to tell today. Just as well really because it was bloody dull, wasn't it? The point of this post is how the smallest of decisions can shape and/or change your life. You see, Chapel Street, like my previous school, Hogwarts and a good proportion of other schools in Britain, had a House system. They assigned all pupils to a House at the start of their Junior school careers but as a latecomer I got to choose my own. Such an honour. Of course, having been put on the spot I just blurted out that I'd be in 'Brancepeth' because that was the one I'd been in at my last school. (The Houses were all named after local-ish Castles. Brancepeth and Durham were common choices for schools in my area. I think Raby was another one. Drawing a blank on the 4th.)

What I had not been told however, probably because the teachers weren't supposed to do it and certainly wouldn't tell the kids even if they were, was that at this particular school, Brancepeth was used as the - I don't want to say dumping ground but you get the idea - for all the kids who had failed to impress in the Infant school. The thickos, if you will.*

Now, without wishing to blow my own trumpet, I'm not. A thicko that is. Or at least, I can do a passable enough imitation of someone with half a brain that I excelled at school, at least when I wanted to and could be bothered. How much I retained is up for debate and 'real world' or 'street' smarts have never been my strong suit but on the day I could answer most questions and pass any test. Proper little swot I was. All of which made me a bit of a novelty (and a bit of a mascot I suppose) in good old Brancepeth House.

So I was placed in a group of under achievers. Houses did everything together. Sport and academic competitions alike were decided by House. You couldn't escape them and you didn't want to. That first day I formed friendships in minutes that would endure for years. They were my mates. End of.

Brancepeth Castle. Arbitrary symbol of my youthful loyalty.

It wasn't until years later, during the GCSE / A Level period of my life, that I realised what that decision had really meant. My friends, the people I'd grown up with, the only people I was truly comfortable around, were never going to be a part of school life. They weren't going to be in top tier classes and planning University careers. If I was to follow my ambitions and achieve my dreams I would have to separate from them even more than Secondary education had already mandated. I would have to leave them behind.

In the end, I couldn't do it. I couldn't function amongst academics and 'swots'. They weren't my people. I was lost in that world. So I left it and never looked back. Until now.

I didn't know any of that though, on that first day at my new school. I may not have known what town I was in, but I knew what House. It was the House with my friends.


* I have no proof of this assertion. There was never any controversy; no big expose in the local rag or anything like that. It just seems like one hell of a big coincidence to me that all of the pupils who might conceivably have been labeled as troublemakers or under-achievers would all end up in the same House. Unless there was 2 or 3 and the rest all synchronised like a bunch of women in an office. Yeah, could have been that I suppose.

Saying Goodbye. Or rather, not.

Dear Diary,
today my teacher confiscated my space invaders game that I just got and also my packet of crisps. I got very upset but he said I could have it back at the end of the week. Maths was hard and at reading time I got through two chapters of my book about the Faraway Tree.

Oh, and Mam said we don't live with Dad anymore.


Yes, I have come to the end of my memories of what I consider the first of 3 major stages in my childhood, although I'm sure loads more will come back to me now I'm moving on. It's surprised me a little, to be honest, how few memories I've been able to dredge up from that time and how many of those have fallen apart when examined, given the strength of feeling I've always had about that period of my life and about living in that place. The smallest things really can make the biggest impact on people I suppose.

So yeah, we came home from school and my Mother was there, along with one of my Uncles, packing our belongings into his car. We were leaving, right then, before my Dad came in from work. The plan was to go and stay at good old Auntie Mickies house until we got sorted with somewhere else more permanent. (I did get a trifle excited about the possibility of seeing a little more of the 'annoying' Anne,although I'd never have admitted it of course) We were bundled into the car and out of there within 10 minutes of getting home. Didn't even take our coats off.

It could have been a very traumatic time for a young lad. Being separated from his Father, without even being given a chance to say goodbye, not having any idea as to why it was happening; it could scar a boy for life. So, naturally, I didn't care. My relationship with my Dad had never been the best and the thought of no longer living with him didn't really bother me in the slightest.

I never did find out what caused the separation. I certainly don't remember any arguing or things being particularly tense between them, and given the shoebox we were living in I'd imagine it would have been pretty hard to hide, even if they'd cared enough about us kids to try. Maybe it was simply a whim on my Mams part, who knows? She certainly isn't known for her good decision making when it comes to men. Or, you know, anything else.

And so in the space of about 20minutes we left behind everything we'd ever known. The flat, which despite the deprivations I had thoroughly enjoyed living in. The sheds with the lethal swings. The school, with it's defunct sports program. The fields out the back with the killer horses. The cricket ground and the free cakes on match day so long as you didn't let on just how dull you thought cricket actually was. The Grandparents and Uncles who seemed to live pretty much everywhere you turned in that village and meant you were never far from a welcoming door. Most importantly though, we left behind my brand new space invaders game, which was still sitting in my teachers drawer. I was gutted about all of those things; just not about my Dad.

I could say that my Dad maybe got dealt something of a rough hand in this whole affair. I'm not going to though. You see, after the separation, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times we had contact. A lot of promises were made and a lot of promises were broken. My own attitude shielded me from any major disappointment but I watched a lot of tears fall from my sister and brother so I think I'll save my sympathies for them.

Orson Welles and Leonard Nimoy but all I can remember is the food after?

Well, I'm back. Didn't post anything in the week between Christmas and New Years because, frankly, who can be bothered right? I should have made the effort though, on here especially, because even after missing just one week it's really hard to summon the enthusiasm to start up again. As I type these words, I have no idea what the bulk of this post is going to be about - I'm hoping inspiration will strike any second now - but I can pretty much guarantee it'll not be a particularly epic one. (Because my previous posts have been positively Homeresque, right?)

Still no inspiration, I'll be back in a bit...


Right then, I'm back.

In my 31 years of life I have been to the cinema exactly one time. I was a wee child and I was taken by my father to see, wait for it, Transformers the Movie.


I remember the day, if not the movie, well. Robins Cinema* it was, in Durham, which sadly no longer exists. The cinema, not Durham, which I'm fairly certain is still there. Last I looked the building was an Australian theme pub that delighted in getting that dude from Neighbours to sing there whenever he was in the country, but I've not been past in a while, so it could be anything now.

Although Robins did manage to survive a good few years after my one and only visit it was a bit rundown and dilapidated even then. I must confess that despite being very young and therefore easily impressed, on this occasion I was anything but. Still, I'm assuming that I enjoyed the movie. Assuming is all I can do, because despite having seen it numerous times since and loving it, (and I'd still take it over anything with the words Fox, Michael, Meaghan or Bay anywhere near the top of the titles), I don't have any specific memories of watching it at the time. It's just as likely that I fell asleep.

No, my main memories of that day come from after the movie. There are two of them and they're both as dull as each other, so quite why they have stuck with me for so long is a mystery.

Okay, first memory, brace yourself for the excitement now. After leaving the cinema we went to a wallpaper shop across the road from it and I thought I was going to die. Going from the darkened cinema to a huge shop with white walls, full of white paper and bathed in bright fluorescent light had my head screaming and spots dancing in front of my eyes. My Dad thought I was being overdramatic and told me to go and wait outside and stop embarrassing him. In hindsight, having such an extreme reaction was probably an early indication of problems with my eyes (I've worn glasses since not long after this and am pretty much blind without them) but at the time I just felt like an idiot. My sister didn't have any problem.

See, seat edge straddling stuff wasn't it? The next one's even better.

Memory #2. Hold on tight. After the whirlwind of emotions that was the wallpaper shop we headed to the cafe where my Mother had the occasional shift behind the counter. She was working that day and therefore we'd be able to get a few extras and whatnot. There wasn't a staff discount, friends and families type of thing officially in place, but the owner didn't mind the occasional freebie here and there. And of course we shamelessly played up the 'look at us, aren't we cute little tykes' angle, that all kids learn at a very early age to employ when around adults that aren't their parents.

So we're sitting in an alcove, waiting for our food to be ready and my sister and I get into an argument. Over, wait for it, the proper pronunciation of food. Oh yes. You see, she had decided that she was going to pronounce it fud. Now, pronouncing it that way may be a regional thing or whatever and I can get behind that, no problem, but it's not a regional thing in our region and it sounds bloody stupid. I can only suppose she must have heard it on the telly and thought, in the way that little kids do, "I'll say that and sound really clever because it must be clever if it's on the telly and anyway it'll make me sound different and people will listen to me and oh look an advert for My Little Pony I wonder if I can get some".

I had never heard it before and told her she was wrong. (Which she was) She argued back. I shouted at her, she shouted at me, our Dad shouted at both of us. In the end I was told to shut up and let her say Fud if she wanted to because it "makes no bloody difference". Which I suppose was a fair point. She continued to say it wrong, to my disgust, for a few weeks and then she forgot. So I won in the end, ha.

At least until the Co-op hired that bloke to do the "good, with fud" adverts.


*While looking for a picture of Robins Cinema online I came across an article that cast considerable doubt on my memories. Apparently, the cinema in question only became known as Robins when it re-opened in 1991, after closing down the previous year, having operated as the Cannon since 1979 and various other names before that. By this token, it would have been the Cannon when I saw Transformers. I have no memory of it being anything other than Robins, so I suppose I must have projected that assumed knowledge to fill a gap in my memory. Funny how the mind works. Makes me wonder what other little details I've always assumed to be true are actually just subconscious guesswork.

Air Hockey, Caravan Avoidance and Anne

Right, 'tis Christmas week. Since my TV blog and my book blog are both going to be (ever so slightly) themed around the season I figured, why not go for a clean sweep and have everything I post this week be Christmas based?

I quickly ran into a problem. That being, try as I might, I can't remember any Christmases from my early childhood. Not any particularly memorable gifts, not any specific family get-togethers, nor any major Christmastime fallings out for that matter. Seriously, I'm sitting here racking (wracking?) my brains but it's like Christmas never happened when I was a kid. Now I know I've made things sound pretty bleak on here in the past but I'm fairly certain things never got so bad that we canceled Christmas. Maybe I'm repressing, I don't know.

So I'm going to tell a story about my birthday instead. It falls in August, which is nearly Christmas, right? And it has presents too, so it's practically the same thing. Also, it's pretty much lacking in misery, depression and domestic violence. I don't have many of those in my arsenal so the festive season seemed like the time to bust one out.

On this particular year, my birthday fell during the fortnight that my father had booked a caravan at the coast. This would be the first year ever that the family would have an actual holiday ( i.e, going away from home) during the school summer holidays. As it turns out it would also be the last. Anyway, I wasn't going with the. I'd like to say that this was yet another example of those terrible parents, grr, excluding and neglecting me, but in truth (at least as far as I remember) it was my idea that I not join them.

I was to stay with my Aunt Michelle, known to one and all as Micky, and her boyfriend Maurice. The idea of staying with them was a novelty that I got very excited about. After all, seaside or not, I would be with the same people I saw every day if I went with my parents. At least this way I was getting to spend time with someone different.

The night before we were due to depart I was allowed to open a birthday gift, so that I could have at least part of the birthday experience with my parents present. I have no memory of what the gift was but the rest were all packed into my uncles car to be opened on the day and the next morning I (and my gifts) headed off in one direction and my family headed off in another.

Nothing particularly special happened during those two weeks. I'd get up, tun to the shop for a pint of milk, have breakfast, go to the park which was right outside their front door for a couple of hours and -whenever possible - sneak down into the woods that bordered the park. In the afternoons we'd watch TV, I'd read a little (yes, I was already a swotty little bookworm who *gasp* read for pleasure) and then we would receive the Royal Guest. Anne, Maurices niece.

Anne was the same age as me and, well, she was really loud and annoying and an attention whore. And pretty. In short, all the things that little boys profess to hate in little girls but actually wouldn't be without. Anne was my first love, no doubt about it. I never told anyone - though the adults made constant jokes about it, much to my embarrassment, I always denied - and I certainly didn't act like it towards her, but I'm man enough to admit it now.

We made the most of the time though. In between bouts of arguing and announcing that we hated each other we spent many long hours climbing the Everest like slide at the park. Remember them? Massive things they were. You'd get to the top and you could see over houses. You could have used them for Para training. Gone the way of the Viking Ship see-saw and the Witches Hat roundabout/climbing frame. And swings that you can actually get a bit of momentum on. Anyway, we'd take turns trying to impress each other by climbing the steps without holding on, or coming down backwards or whatever. How do pre-pubescent kids show off to their crushes these days? Get to 8 years old and you're taller than most of the stuff on a modern playground. Anyway...

Half way through the fortnight my birthday came and amongst other gifts that I can't remember I got one of those miniature air hockey table things that were all the rage before Jim Nintendo invented the Master System. Maurice would kick my arse at it, because letting a kid win on his birthday would have just been silly, wouldn't it? Then I'd play Anne, and kick her arse at it, because letting her win would have been nice, and I couldn't do that. Happy times.

The fortnight ended and I had to go home. Anne came to say goodbye, which was nice of her and in my head meant that she loved me as much as I loved her. Never mind that she came every day anyway, this time she'd come for me, dammit. Waving goodbye to her broke my ickle heart. But wave goodbye I did,and left, never to return.

For a while anyway. In truth, Mickey, Maurice and that house, park and wood (though sadly not Anne) would come to feature very heavily in my future. Then though, the novelty would wear off and the experience would be slightly less exciting. And a lot less pleasant.

Nightmares

Check them out.



Beautiful creatures aren't they?

I never used to think so, mind you. When I was very young I went through a phase, which seemed to last forever but which in reality was probably only a couple of weeks, where I dreamed every night about snakes coming out of the wall above my bed and dropping on to me. It got to the point where I didn't even have to be asleep; as soon as I closed my eyes I'd see them. I was, not to be coarse, absolutely fucking terrified. The trek up to my room at night was torture and there wasn't a lot in the way of sympathy from my parents.

Then the snakes went away. It's not like I confronted my fears and drove away my subconscious demons or anything. I just went to bed one night and didn't dream about snakes. A few months later, I would have given anything to have those snakes back.

You see, they were replaced by the Big Woman. Essentially, a woman. A tall woman, but still, just a woman. Now, I know that you can't dream about something or someone whom you have never seen, so presumably I must have encountered her at some point but I have no idea where and I have no idea who she was. She just showed up in my dreams one night and wouldn't leave again.

It's not as if she did anything particularly nasty or anything, when I dreamed about her. In fact, she never did anything at all. A typical scenario would be me walking along the street with my mother, I'd see the Big Woman and start to panic. I'd be gripped with a paralysing fear and wouldn't be able to go any further. I'd beg with my mother to turn around and go back the way we'd come but she would laugh and say I was being silly and start to drag me closer to the Big Woman. The nearer we'd get I'd start to cry and scream and it would usually end with me peeing myself (literally, the sheets were always wet when I woke up) and collapsing to the floor, limp. Then I would watch as the Big Woman came closer and closer and when she got right up close to us she would... say Hello to my mother. And then I'd wake up.

What the hell was that about eh?

These dreams, unlike the snakes, which only seemed to go on for ages, actually did. 3 years or so in fact. Maybe the only reason they eventually stopped was because I got so used to them that the novelty wore off and I wasn't afraid any more. Whatever the reason they stopped, they did, without me ever discovering who the Big Woman was or why I was so scared of her.

Sadly, the bedwetting didn't stop with the nightmares. Apparently there was a physical reason for that; my bladder wasn't developing properly and I had the bladder strength of a 3yr old until well into my teens, which meant wet sheets and school accidents for almost as long. But that's another, even more embarrassing than being scared of a random woman, story. And one that will no doubt crop up again at some point.

So there's something for you to look forwards to eh?

Sweeties and the price we pay for them.

The beating my Dad gave me after I locked him in the toilet because he wouldn't let me go and steal cake from cricketers was the worst I'd ever experienced at that point in my life. It was not, however, going to hold on to that record for long.

My mother had a job at the local Co-op. This often meant working nights. My father also had a job that involved a lot of night shifts. Often, the two would clash. At times like these my parents would do the only thing they could do in that situation. They both went to work and left me in charge. Now, yes, I was far too young and they were terrible parents for doing it and yadayadayada but at the time it was a huge thrill. I didn't feel deprived or neglected or any of that good stuff; I felt grown up, trusted, and cocky.

One night, I had been left in charge; of myself basically because my sister and little bruv were both asleep. However, a coughing fit in her sleep by my sister woke my brother, who started crying, which woke my sister, who started to shout at him, and pretty soon, in an effort to calm them both down I had allowed them out of bed and was putting on a puppet show for them in the living room, using cuddly bears and plastic soldiers. As you do.



Now, I'm quite proud (maybe too proud) of my ability to spout improvised bullshit at the drop of a hat, but back then I was still just beginning to hone this most noble of arts and after an hour or so my puppet show was beginning to flag somewhat.



The well was running dry and I needed something else to keep them entertained. It was then that I spotted a little pile of change on the sideboard. Aha, I thought, this is it. I took 30p from the pile (10p each), wrapped my Sister and Brother in their dressing gowns and slippers and off we headed to the shop. The shop beneath the flat that is, we weren't off on a mile long trek or anything.

And so it came to pass that we all came home with 10p mix-ups each.



What luxury. You have to remember that this was in the days when 10p would get you 10 sweets. Penny chews were not yet trading under false pretenses. So we scoffed down our sweets, I sent the pair of them back to bed, which they resisted until their heads hit the pillows, at which point they were out like lights, and I returned to the living room to read a bit. It was here that my Mother found me when she came home. And then all Hell broke loose.

Actually, it didn't. She came home, I went to bed, we all got up in the morning and went to school, everything was hunky dory. Then we came home. And that's when all Hell broke loose. My mother had been to the shop during the day, gotten into a discussion with the owner and he had mentioned our having been in the night before. Busted!

We stole 30p. This I'm not denying. I'm not so old though that I grew up in a time when 30p was any massive amount of money. I honestly thought, when she confronted me about going to the shop, that the big no-no that she was upset about was the fact that we had gone out alone, however short a distance, in the middle of the night, in our pyjamas. Not so. This bothered her not a jot. But the money! Oh, she was very upset about the money.

My little sis and bro were not punished, and nor should they have been. It was my decision to do what we did. Not that it would have mattered anyway, the oldest is responsible, even when they're not. That's the rule. She didn't hit me often, my Mam, in those days (she made up for it later though), but when she did she hit hard. So hard that she didn't have to hit you many times; just 2 or 3 precise, clinical, cold blows that pretty much wiped you out. I didn't do PE the next day at school.



Why is this a worse beating than the one that my Dad gave me earlier? The coldness. His was a wild, angry affair, with lots of shouting and many blows. He was mad and I knew about it. My mother didn't shout, or even speak beyond the initial confrontation. She just hit me. Then she hit me again. Then she hit me again. Then she told me, very calmly, to go to bed. Which I did, doubled over from being winded, unable even to cry properly because I couldn't get the breath to sob.

In the years that followed that coldness went away from my mam. She became much more violent towards us kids, but it was violence like my Dads was. Loud and wild and uncontrolled. As bad as those times were, I was glad of them, in a way. When we got wild Mam, we didn't get cold Mam, and that was a blessing.

So there you have it. Another story from my early years. Cheery little tale wasn't it? It's no wonder I can't get anyone to read this bloody thing, with downers like this every week. Anyway, until next time, when The Big Woman I promised you will finally make her appearance.