At just nine years old he had skipped around the fluted cast iron lamppost set in the dog shit grass verge in front of his parents’ semi, in front of the trim hedge, in front of number eighty nine on the mouldy wooden gate in need of creosote. His father trimmed the hedge Sundays, they all did in this neck of the woods. Washed their cars too, if they owned one. His Father owned a black Hercules bike with rod brakes. It weighed a ton.
Eighty nine eighty nine eighty nine eighty nine as he skipped, spun, hopped round around and around and around he went as the hands of his Timex would travel in ticka ticka timex time machine, tra la la, tra la la, his right hand on cold and solid and dependable iron holding him in from flying into giddy orbit. The dizzy Tardis, deep dark blue. It was super living in a scraping sound vortex of tardistic creosote scented space time. Creosoted, once a year in this neck of the woods, smelly dog shit green nettle stinging verge, spacelessness timelessness inside out, scatty mind over matter not nowhere, nothing, never ever again in my neck of the woods.
“Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye and good riddance, oh porcelain faced Princess of The Thunder Clouds!”
Little did he know, at such a tender age, that that had been as happy as life would ever get, and having sobbed for Bambi, that was as sad as it would ever get. Little did he know that having fallen from his blue tricycle, and having broken both his front teeth, that was as painful as existence would ever get.
And little did he know that playing with little tinkler and wiping his fingers on the sheet, that was as stimulating as love would ever get.
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