Little Me...

When I was very young, I used to sit on my own in my bedroom, pinching the tops of my ears in the hope that they would change shape and become pointed just like those sported by Mr. Spock. Since I was not born with such amazing and fashionable ears, I felt that I would have to do something about it myself. I would sit for an hour whilst enduring some considerable pain but knowing that it would be worth it eventually and I’d be the envy of all my friends who only had regular human ears. When that hour was up and I could not stand the discomfort any longer, I would race to the mirror to see how things had improved. Every single time I tried this, it seemed doomed to miserable failure. I had the same boring round topped ears, only they were redder and a lot more sore and swollen than they were before. I was determined not to give in to aural mediocrity and vowed to try repeatedly, until my ultimate goal was finally achieved. I can well remember the final feeling of disappointment as I realised that far from becoming a Vulcan hero at school, I was going to be known as the weird kid with the red batwing ears. I needed another way of showing people that I was great, and fast!

Therefore, I decided that I would speak another language. This was of course, a brilliant notion and one that could be put into practice with no bother at all. “Chubrahahaha nonichink?” I announced to my best friend at school next day. “Chushta broob!” he replied. “Ninch chhhhaaaa brovvmookak.” I retorted glad that I had found someone that could communicate with me on my own terms. Having made that announcement, I was disappointed to see that far from my intended message about running round and round until we were sick, he had interpreted it as jumping up and down on a rotten apple that he had found. My plan may have needed a little more work than I previously thought, but first on the agenda would have to be the absolute destruction of the apple.

I wandered homewards after school was over and occasionally muttered more of these exotic sentences and proclamations to passers by, but received no more recognition than that of a cow listening to a cat’s mewing… I knew that I was special, probably from outer space or even the future but how was I to make these people understand what they were dealing with? I pondered the way I felt that night as I nursed my sore ears again. Life was fantastic, surrounded by great friends; laughter was as plentiful as the summer rain. Yet, when I saw the adults in my life going about their daily business, I was struck by just how little time they had for play, for fun and for dreaming. They rarely, if ever, seemed to smile or enjoy life.They would open strange brown envelopes and mutter about money, even though all grown ups had endless amounts of money and could buy anything they wanted! I began to worry that just maybe I would turn out to be like them one day! I had no idea about when this might happen. Could there really be a day when programmes like “The News” or “Nationwide” might become interesting, instead of an unwelcome intrusion to my afternoon’s entertainment, in just the same way that the end of the Test Card on BBC2 gave way to a boring black and white film. I really did not want to change into one of those joyless grown ups that taught me how to be miserable in class and on the sports field. I wanted to prove that I was someone from beyond their normal understanding and in doing so, I would escape whatever fate was on the adult horizon for me.

What I really needed was a new pair of shoes! I needed special adult shoes that made that satisfying, crisp clack and crunch sound that my father’s shoes made when he walked. That was a grown up sound, which I could use to my advantage. If someone heard me approaching with such a confident step, they would know that they were about to meet a real force to be reckoned with! I simply had to have these shoes, for the sake of my future plans. I made this urgent request to my mother who, after some persuading and much pleading with, took me to Clark’s shoes in Woolwich in order to find the perfect footwear for such a purpose.

Chaos came to Clark’s that afternoon as I tried on several different styles of shoe, marching up and down with only the left one on. Finally, the ultimate shoe was located, paid for and road tested for the first time! They pinched a little, but they made the right sound! I walked proudly from the shop! At last, I would have a chance to stand out from the crowd, to make an impression and to be SOMEBODY! With those shoes, I would be able to become the spokesperson for the “alien from the future” culture. What I had not counted on was the reaction of my Aunt who, upon seeing that I was wearing my amazing shoes, ruffled my hair and gave me a spitty tissue face wash and a pink iced cake. The power of the shoes was immediately undermined. However, it was not a complete disaster due to the acquisition of the piece of cake. I munched my prize and tapped my foot thoughtfully. The shoes had indeed bought me a certain amount of happiness, but it was completely the wrong kind. The shoes would eventually scuff, the shine lost under the onslaught of unavoidable muddy puddles and dog poo. That was a sure thing. There would have to be one final and decisive plan of action to make the people that surrounded me realise that I was a special and quite different little fellow. This last attempt would need very careful planning if it was going to be a success...

The scene was set for the big one. I stood at my bedroom window, which overlooked the main play area on the estate where I lived. Below me were a climbing frame and a muddy patch of grass which was the place where all the footballs and frisbees that littered our patio originated. I surveyed the scene quietly, watching all my friends at play. They ran and shouted, they were indefatigable, invincible and completely unaware that I was watching over them. I would have to make sure that my plan went without a hitch, so I busied myself making safety preparations for the moment that my playmates would discover the sensitive and strong individual that, to my eyes, I obviously was. I braced myself, counted one, two three and then shouted out of the window...

Oi, you lot! Waheyyyy!, I yelled at the top of my voice. I felt that I may have blown it right there as I had not planned exactly what it was that I wanted to say. However, it had the desired effect of making everyone look up at my window. There were a few waves and some rather rude gestures, but I had caught their attention. It was then that I made a play for the world’s affections. I groaned loudly, rolled my eyes and fainted dramatically backwards onto the pre-positioned pile of cushions. I sniggered quietly to myself as I imagined the huge rush of chums speeding to my aid. As I lay on the floor, I noticed that the sounds of play below had not turned to frantic sounds of concern. Far from it! I peeked over the window sill and it was just as if nobody had noticed... I got to my feet and coughed loudly, hoping to sound as if I had just had a close call and then with an extra flourish, I fainted again. After a few minutes, I came to realise that nobody was coming. I sprawled out on the cushions feeling like a bit of an idiot as, yet again, my plan had failed. It was frustrating to me that despite all my efforts, nothing had changed and I was still just plain old me without any special claim to fame. Maybe that was all I would ever be and perhaps I ought to be happy with that. Possibly, I had been trying too hard, I couldn’t say. I had no intention to make a fool of myself in public again.. One day, I would be someone but until that day came, I would just have to be patient. I laid back on my bed and stared at the stuff that sat on my bedside table. I noticed my water pistol and a packet of sweets and with every ounce of effort that I could muster, I attempted to levitate them...

Stop the Pigeon...

Just recently, I have found myself ducking out of the way of low flying pigeons far more often than I used to. They come swooping along at head height and I find myself looking these feathered rats straight in the eye as they bear down on me over and over again. I'm not sure whether they are competing in some sort of daredevil avian extreme sport. Maybe they are suffering from some sort of mass hysteria resulting in bird vertigo and they are staying at far lower altitudes? Whatever the case may be, I find myself dodging out of the way as they tear past me with an audible swoosh.

Pigeons are by far the most stupid birds that I have ever encountered. They seem to think that danger begins at the end of their cowardly beaks and they fly off in a panic at the slightest movement. They seem to have four basic functions at their command..."UP!", "DOWN!", "EAT!" and "CRAP!" They stomp around in the local park with their twisted clubbed feet and more than once in my life, I have been "Wing whacked" as one flys past me at the aforementioned low altitude. So, although I don't wish bird flu on any of them, I do hope that they get a nasty headache as they crash headlong into yet another shop window. Idiots.

Baltic Food Store

There is a row of shops just below my flat and there has been, for some time, a vacant shop which used to be the "Big Brother Security" company. I always rather liked this shop as it seemed like the worst undercover operation in the world... "Don't look at us...there's nothing to see here." You felt compelled to look in the window. But now there are new tenants in the once empty shop and it's a rather incongruous little business calling itself "Baltic food store." There seems to be very little actual Baltic food in there but instead there is an array of noisy people with little or no intention of selling anything to anyone.

I just can't work out exactly what does go on in there... For example, the was a bunch of children outside the shop this afternoon, looking in the window, shouting and laughing. Later, I looked out of my window and I noticed that the Police were questioning a motorcyclist outside of the Baltic food store whilst the staff stood impassively watching the proceedings and still not selling anything. They are open until late at night and I can see various people wandering around the shop but no customers coming in.

There is now a sign in the shop window which states that "Lithuanian is spoken here." For all the custom that the shop gets, they might as well speak Welsh or Icelandic. Nobody will notice the difference. I shall keep my eye on this bizarre little shop and maybe, in the coming weeks, someone will actually pop in with a hankering for some kind of Baltic food. There's hope for them yet.

Leaving party...

So, last night was the party to say farewell to everybody at work. Mass redundancy. It felt wrong to see all those people that I normally attempt to avoid during the day but under disco circumstances. The young and the old, shuffling feet somewhat self-consciously to the pathetic spectacle of "DJ Oggy's mobile disco." I fought my way to the bar in order to soften my brain and to feel less like I was at a wedding reception for a long lost cousin. Chicken bones and quiche were trodden into the already damp carpet and the wallpaper was peeling unappealingly.

It was highly amusing to see all the wives, husbands and hangers on of the soon to be ex-workmates. It is no surprise to me that I have never encountered them before and it is just as well that the lights were turned down low. I can imagine that an undertaker would have a busy night taking measurements from these half dead human husks.

Some of these people will disappear from my life forever and soon...others will remain familiar. Sadly, the wrong ones will vanish, leaving the gormless gits and creepy weird ones to inhabit the periphery of my world.

I wondered as I wandered home...I have firm opinions on all of those people but what on Earth do they make of me? I came to the conclusion that it's better that I don't know.

Now I need a job! Someone give me a job!