365 Ways With Words

Crossing Barnes Common

He clasped the upright as he flung his body around and leaped energetically from the rear platform of the number 33 Routemaster. Dressed entirely in purple, he confidently strode away from the traffic towards the dry greenery. Even he thought purple was overdoing it, but he was experimenting: perhaps it was his colour. Ting-ting! As the bus pulled away in a bitter cloud of diesel particulates, the conductor removed his cap and scratched his head – what a fucking idiot!

The London evening sun streamed softly through the branches of the plane trees. Ever-mindful, when crossing Barnes Common, is the thought that Marc Bolan wrapped his Mini Cooper around a tree somewhere here. What a waste. Life is too precious to waste.

Six months before, they had courted in the snow by the river along the embankment near Hammersmith Bridge. They parted best of friends before the holidays, with the hint of withheld attraction. It was only on Christmas Day, with an accompanying indolent nausea that made it impossible to eat, that he realised that this was love. He hadn't even tried to think about her, but rapid-fire memories of their times together popped up at all times – love hallucinations that wouldn't leave.

In this mood he was fearless. Who needed money? Who needed a career? Who needed anything when the heart's desire wrested every waking moment of attention. He decided he was a slave to love and that there was no obstacle that could not be overcome in his willing obedience to its call.

At last, there on Ranelagh Gardens, was the house. Unabashed, he stepped up to the door. No one answered the doorbell, so he sat in the sun on the step and waited beneath the climbing roses. Even this was testimony to his devotion.

9pm, and there was a phone call: Can I stay? No. But we've only just started watching Alien. No.

Crossing Barnes Common in the twilight hurt – each step of separation tightened the strings of intimate connection towards breaking point, but they merely stretched on and on with each soft step.

Heartful, mournful, adoring sighs emanated as the brightly-lit 33 whisked him away back home. There he sat, in his purple – what a fucking idiot!

Late Bus

Flavia's party? It was a great – I mean great. All the girls were there. It was great.

Got there just after about 8. Or was it 7? Such a cool house, right next to Ealing Common. Yeah, her mum and dad were there. At least, I think they were.

But the girls. I mean, the girls. It was there with the others – David, Jonathan, erm... and a few I didn't know. Natasha was there. Thought you'd like to know that.

They played music – you know, stuff in the charts. So, they must buy her singles. Really good record player. Nice food too.

Everyone left at about 10. At least, that's when we started to go. But it must have been way after 11 –or even 12– before we said goodbye and I crossed the common towards Ealing Broadway and found a bus stop. Her mum asked if I'd be ok. "Yeah! It's fine." I said, "I know how to look after myself."

I waited and waited, but no buses arrived, at least none that were good for me. By then it was night buses only, so I had to wait, like, half-an hour or more. I was the only one at the bus stop. Some creep came up to me. He asked me something. I said "Fuck off!" He said, "So that's a no, then?" And I just looked away, I did.

Anyway, I got the bus ok. No one else on it. But it was a good party – God, really good.

When I got home she was there, behind the door, with curlers in and everything. Instead of being happy I was home, I got a right yelling at. Where had I been? Why had I left it so late? She was going to call the police. It was half-past two. Gave me a few good clouts too.

I swear, I didn't know it was, like, that late. I had no idea. Anyway, the party finished late. And what was all the fuss about anyway – I got home, didn't I?

If I have kids, I'll never act like that.

Done your maths? Got to go. See you Monday.

Spy on the Run

Beep-beep-beep! It was a message from control.

Just checking ur ok. Where r u?

He acknowledged with a cursory response, "Will have info soon. Scramble all comm in future. Code Red."

How long would he have to put up with the petty, small-minded approach to spying. Didn't they know that field operatives like him had to make snap life-and-death decisions and take matters into hand as things arose?

Peered over the bridge onto the tracks he took a quick photo with his communicator and replaced it in his pocket. Too busy to notice him, and dressed as railway line contractors, the enemy appeared to be replacing old drainage and conducting excavations beside the wood. But something was not right. He had to get closer.

Retreating back down the snowy road he reckoned he would enter the forest edge by scaling the electronic perimiter fence. He didn't have his usual equipment with him, so he squatted and pulled out his notebook, looking up E for electricity. He found a secret equation he'd uncovered on Operation Library:

Yes! Yes, this would do it. Using it he scaled the fence, taking care not to catch his scarf on the rusty and spindly wire end where it sagged.

One hurdle done, he scanned the screening wood – no guards, no dogs, nothing. Perhaps it was mined. He looked around but found nothing to indicate mine-laying. But maybe this was also part of their ruse – that for 100 yards it would be clear and then ka-boom! It was better to take things nice and slow. This was the best approach with mines he'd encountered in the past. He'd had some lucky escapes in his time using sticks.

Running bent over between the trees, he covered his approach, but just to be safe he grabbed a handful of cold mud and smeared it over his face: that way he could get even closer to make his observations. He was close enough now to hear the construction work being carried out – beeping trucks and the excited revving engine of the digger. The last hundred yards he managed on hands and knees until he was right up to the edge of the embankment. He checked right and left: no one looked his way. In three strides he was down the scree bank and hid crouched behind a stack of large drainage pipes.

Nearby two workers stood and talked whilst the digger moved away.

"So, what d'you reckon – Arsenal or Chelsea?"

"Give me a break. If Čech doesn't do something stupid, or get an injury, then it's a walkover."

It was sorse than he thought. He had to get it down, but their code was too quick for him. He daren't risk being seen with his communicator in hand, so he picked his notebook from his pocket, flipped to the back and scribbled, Arsenal of weapons. Czech. Operation 'Walkover'. He had to get this information back as soon as possible. But he needed a date for their attack: he'd have to keep waiting until one of them spilled the beans. Each second in enemy territory was dangerous, but he couldn't deny being so close to discovery gave him a perverse thrill.

The digger came back. The driver opened the cab and spoke to one of the two workers. He saw one of them look at his watch: "1:15 Lunch mate." At that the operator switched off the engine.

Now he had the date and time. He scribbled, January 15th lunchtime – God have mercy!

He'd uncovered so many fiendish plots in the past, but this one was bigger than anything he'd previously encountered. He knew what he had to do – get word back to base, even if it meant his life. But now he was exposed. Could he make it back up the bank without attracting their machine guns? He checked his gun – he'd had it since Christmas and it jammed a lot. Only one bullet left: enough for one. After that he'd have to hope for the best and trust his instincts.

He needed a diversion – some sabotage to keep them occupied whilst he got back. Then it occurred to him that he was in exactly the right place to...

A train rumbled slowly past, vibrating the stack of piping he hid behind. If he could loosen the ties the whole thing would come crashing down on the tracks and keep them busy for hours. He checked his pocket – he was in luck! He had remembered his Swiss Army knife – handy for just such occasions, or to fight it out if the worst came to the worst. With deft fingertips he prized open the long blade and admired its shiny glean in the early afternoon light.

"Ah, my trusty friend. Together we've kept them at bay these long years. Once more I call on you. To work!"

He began with a quick sawing motion on the cables that tied the pipes together. One down, two more to go. He moved along as stealthily as he could, every now and again popping his muddy face above the bright yellow pipes. The second and third ties snapped quickly, but they didn't budge. Not one inch, even with a push. There was nothing for it – he'd have to go around and pull them down.  Taking one last look he ran out and was pleased to see two upright safety stakes holding back the pipes from their cascade. With his wellington boot gave three good kicks to the first one. It moved – good. But as he ran to the other side he was spotted. One of the agents challenged with an "Oi! What you doing?"

He kicked with all his might. It must surely be only a matter of seconds before they turned their guns on him. With a final kick the stake gave way and the pipes began their relentless journey to the tracks. He had to lie on the ground and allow the pipes to run over him. They bounced over each other down to the line, making loud pipey boings as they reverberated.

He had to return to base pronto. Standing up he was aware of their approaching menacing cries and knew he had to run up the embankment as fast as he could – back towards the relative safety of the mine-infested wood and the electric fence. At the top he couldn't resist giving one last glimpse back of the glorious view of his devastation – a moment of utter triumph, a feat of unsurpassed daring and spymanship.

It was the only description they gave the transport police attending the scene at the centre of the three hour delay to rail traffic along the entire west coast line – muddy face, blue duffle coat and black wellies. A child of about 9.

The Fart

An early-afternoon calm settled on the hot classroom. The heat of the clear-blue day radiated through the windows to counter the effects of the air conditioning from the glowering May sun. The uninspiring view of the square box mid-Kowloon syline served only to focus the minds of the students – there was simply nothing else to do.

Whilst they settled into the task, the teacher sat down on his soft chair and used the silent opportunity to send vital emails, put the finishing touches to a worksheet and glance at Facebook. Another 15 minutes of worktime stretched ahead. But something else was pressing – wind.

Breaking wind in class is a perennial problem. Mild-mannered teachers exercise strict control of all bodily functions, saving it up until a visit to the lavatory enables a full discharge. Bravo! Ladies produce perfumed farts reminiscent of a walk through an English Country Garden. The gods of teaching kind have no such problems: they simply do not fart – ever – not even by mistake. Others, however, the human-sort – flesh and blood – are not quite so lucky. For them, even a sneaky one could spell disaster; social ostracism at best and a possible career exit as worst.

Such was the case that afternoon. It had been a curry night and late start. All was ship-shape until the mild diuretic and laxative effects of a large lunch-time cup of tea. Then the gurgling began, unnoticed by all sat more than five feet away. Once the corner had been turned there was simply no-where else for it to go. A smelly emination of gargantuan proportions was imminent.

What to do? The teacher looked up at the class – heads were bowed and eyes down, their task taking up attention. It was now or never and if worst came to the worst then a blank face would be proof alone of innocence – teachers don't fart, do they?

Up on one cheek, the urgent pressure on the emergency valve was released one turn – sufficient to allow egress in a controlled manner. But the combined nature of the gases was such that once out of the bag, so to speak, the release became a gaseous flood, and a noisy one at that: "Paaaaarppp!!!" A rattly rasp redolent of the plastic chair variety filled every ear with its shocking, defiant tone.

All heads looked up, shocked at the sudden and unabashed retort from a base bodily function. Protesting disgust, their glances instantly fell upon the teacher, but as arbiter of classroom etiquette and politeness, not as instigator. His reflected face protested shock and with outrage enquired, "Who did that?"

Some swung glances towards Freddy, whose head was still lowered in attention to work. "Freddy!" arose a synchronous chorus. The usual suspect protested innocence. But then the earthy, rotten smell flooded across the desks. Hands rushed to noses and nostrils were plugged with whatever came to hand. "Poo! Freddy!" Even the teacher joined in. "Freddy, can you please go to the toilet?" He protested louder than normal, but it felt to all-but-one of the assembled inhalers as a weak misdirecting ruse. He remained firmly in his plastic chair.

Finally, Freddy sat red-faced, an admission of guilt: he appeared to enjoy another occasion for notoriety. The class settled again as the Brownian Motion equally distributed the gases to all four corners of the room. By rights the teacher should have been outed, and re-Christened in a manner that would mean future generations would forever remember the incident, but against all likelihood he got away scot-free. The school day ended the lesson and another reminder was issued to the poor Freddy to ensure his bodily functions were firmly under control, a humourous last-minute classroom finale that failed to detonate the desired camaraderie – "It wasn't me! It wasn't!" he frowned. The teacher felt pity and not a little shame for the poor fall guy, but there was no alternative: protest or no, he had to take the hit.

Pizza of Death

...

Box – coffin

Heat – cremation

Grease – putrefaction

Landfill – cemetary

He finished his poem and folded the paper. Unlike Gemma's delightful creation on horses, or Ben's rising narration about scoring the ultimate goal, Devlin received neither applause nor congratulation nor even a murmer. It was another example of him being weird: the weird kid who upset things just by being there. He sat down to thoughtful silence, but the thoughts directed towards him weren't friendly. He expected it.

The happy young teacher didn't know what to do with him – the depressed child who tended to depress anyone who was sat with him. Except he wasn't depressed: not really. If asked, which he never was, he would say that he saw life for what it really was, and would describe it without excuses or unecessary embellishments. That's why he had become an atheist at 6 and already knew he would be a Scientist at the beginning of his fourth grade. Calm certainty was everything.

He made efforts, just as his mother had kindly directed, in order to make friends, but he always found their running-around games to be, well, childish. He much preferred it when the rains fell and his class stayed inside: it meant they could play battleships, cards or chess.

His one constant friend was Nick, mostly because Nick was fat and didn't enjoy puffing, sweating and wheezing about chasing some ball or other. At the end of break the others would noisily pour in through the double doors and nearly always see them together, staring at the bench between them doing something thoughtful together. Sometimes Nick enjoyed it, and occasionally there might be a third or even a fourth boy to join in whatever occupied them. When John broke his leg he brought to school brand new packs of Trumps and by default was immediately brought into the circle of navel gazers. Devlin drew up a tournament that he went on to win: he'd read a small booklet about card games and how to start out with and then build on a strategy. He was always one step ahead of anyone and seemed to expect their moves before they happened. For everyone else this was another example of his weirdness. As soon as was physically possible, John rejoined the others, even chasing the football on crutches.

His tenth birthday was imminent and his mother insisted he invite Nick and whoever else he liked to their house for a birthday tea. Nick said he'd go this time, having put off the invite last year. He asked John, but he was already going to a cousin's party. He asked them all, but one-by-one they gave excuses. It was tedious, not to say humiliating – even to a 10-year old. He even approached each of the girls. If they didn't laugh at him, then they also found an excuse. The last girl he asked, very short and with glasses, was Holly. A lonely girl herself, she immediately agreed to come; without even bothering to hide behind some excuse.

It was a beautiful early June Saturday. The white Atlantic clouds races across the open blue between the trees. He bathed and put on a new shirt bought especially for this occasion. It scratched. By twelve there was an extended rumbly crunching on the gravel drive that told everyone the first guests had arrived. Devlin looked out of the open front door in time to see three car doors slam and Nick, his father and mother waddle towards him. They were all fat. It was the first time he'd ever seen them, but they were so alike to Nick that he would have instantly known them by sight.

At a pace Devlin showed them around the orchard towards the farm gates, cut through the wood and hopping over the style came back across the lawn where Mr O'Dowd was finishing up – the whole place was filled with the rich aroma of cut summer grass, although Nick's dad was too busy wiping the sweat from his face to enjoy much of anything. They came back into the kitchen and received a cup of tea from Mrs O'Dowd, Mr O'Dowd's wife and the housekeeper, who stood and gave her usual proud monologue about Mr O'Dowd being decended from the last pagan king of Ireland. Devlin's mum and dad joined them with smiles and together they moved from the hot kitchen to the warm and beautifully light old conservatory. Nick's parents were all set to leave and go shopping in nearby Coleraine –such as it is– should they find themselves stuck at a kids party. Their exit strategy looked less likely the longer they stayed and when Mrs O'Dowd brought out the pigs in blankets it was a forlorn hope. They settled in and then began to enjoy themselves.

Meanwhile Nick was accompanying Devlin in a perusal of his airfix models. Only last night he'd finished painting the Ark Royal aircraft carrier, his birthday present, and together they glued the sections together and touched up the last painting. They heard the tell-tale crunch-crunch of someone walking up the drive and peered out through the dormer window – it was Holly, alone. They greeted her alone, the adults having far too much fun to hear the small girl's quiet approach. Back upstairs they viewed the finished model, which Holly approved, and collectively discussed whether it would float. Devlin doubted it, but as a test they quarter filled the bath with cold water. It did, although it listed to the point of near capsize. They dried it on a towlel and took it back to his bedroom. With the door closed they sat and began discussing each others' lives. Devlin began by describing his parents' academic careers. Nick talked about his parents and their profitable high street fast food business. Holly, however, shifted uncomfortably. For some reason this was clearly not a subject she wanted to broach. She panicked, but neither of the boys picked up the signals. Instead, she stood up before them and silently drew down the front of her track suit trousers and then the front of her knickers.

The boys stared, neither of them having ever given sex much thought beyond the customary pleasure in expressing disgust whenever it was mentioned on television. Yet here it was, staring them in the face. They were a little shocked. For her part, Holly was getting attention, perhaps in the only way she could control. It was a game from years ago that her older cousin had instigated. She enjoyed the attention then and it made her laugh. Quite why she had done it right there and then was beyond her, but it was done. This time she pulled up her pants and trousers without a laugh.

They sat in silence until she asked if they'd like to do the same. Devlin, for the first time, felt coy. This wasn't the kind of party he'd had in mind at all – he only agreed in the first place just to please his mum. Now it had taken on an entirely different dimension. Nick stood up pulled his pants down over his round barrel of a belly. Holly looked, but she didn't appear to show astonishment – it was as if she had seen this sort of thing before. Devlin stood up and dropped his shorts. They stood before her, a little embarrassed, even behind closed doors at the top of the rambling Victorian house.

The door, however, burst open. Devlin's mother walked in on the situation with a pressing urgency. The words, 'Oh thank God you're here. Nick, your father is unw...' were in her mouth when she stopped, seeing the two peachy bottoms facing her – and a girl seated before them. Before she could say anything else the boys hurriedly pulled up their trousers and shame-facedly turned around.

She wanted to find out what was going on, but instead repeated the message she had only just started – that it looked like Nick's father was having a heart attack. They all rushed downstairs to find that he was indeed suffering from cardiac arrest. Devlin's father was placing him on the floor in the recovery position, but he was turning blue. It was clear he was not breathing. Beside him were two pizza boxes from his very own business that Nick's mum had earlier brought in from the car for the party.

The ambulance took them all away. Holly had already gone. It was up to Devlin to discuss the afternoon's occurences with his mother and father in the lounge. They said little to him, previously agreeing between themselves that this was the sort of thing kids got up to and left it at that. It was the one occasion where despite his analysis of the situation he wouldn't have known how to respond other than by telling the truth. In the end, his parents spared him the agony – he identified it as an expression of parental love.

Word had got around and by Monday the rest of the class added a new deadly reason to think of Devlin as weird. Holly, however, replaced Nick that day as his indoor companion. Between her distracting glances they shared something new, hidden and exciting. From now on card games and battleships would be played with an unexpected additional element – a smile.

She Played the Number 5 In D

 

Again, and again, the notes rose and fell in the right, but they remained stubbornly arrhythmic, or more precisely, stuck together in clumps of ugly misshapen threes. The left hand maintained the simple tapping of the root of whatever was going on in the right, but no matter what she did the regular right-hand certainties of Bach evaded her, like a precise architectural sketch smudged by a continuous downpour, except downpours usually stop after a little persistence; hers was more of a eternal drizzle.

The exercises her teacher had directed, Czerny mostly, were intolerably dull. Each day, the keyboard lid was pushed up and the hour's practice began with 15 minutes on the limbering scales, then a quick tour of the arpeggios and then a section of Czerny. She couldn't see the point of bloody Czerny – if you needed a particular way to move your fingers for a particular piece then surely you practiced that way and only that way. Why waste time drumming up combinations of 13542, 13452, 13254 and so on? She once told her teacher how much she hated doing these things. He had listened, apparently thinking, and then told her to get on with them anyway.

Bach's mathematical constructions weren't too bad, but her real love was Beethoven. There was something robust about Beethoven, particularly his strong themes and exact repetitions. The romantic allure allowed, if not downright encouraged, a delicious laxity in timing when played. If you slowed because it was a bit difficult – well, who was to know that it wasn't just part of the piece, your artistic interpretation? She drew out the Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, particularly the lilting Adagio cantabile movement, for as many weeks as possible and almost cried when, having forgotten herself and played it beautifully to him one afternoon, he simply placed a large tick in the top corner of the page to signify 'done'. Playing Beethoven she was the gifted daughter in a Jane Austin drawing room wowing the bitchy, spiteful ladies and curious, attractive gentlemen arrayed before here on rows of low chairs. After all, Jane Austin heroines didn't play Bach, did they?

 

In desperation she'd even flicked through the introduction to her book of Bach's 48 Preludes:

"One thing, however, is quite certain; viz. that before anything "pianistic" is attempted by way of free translation, the student should have thoroughly mastered Bach's exact part-writing as written, and should be able to express its climaxes distinctly without adding or altering a note."

"Damn you!" she said out loud in response. "Damn you for making it difficult, so damn difficult." She attacked the right hand again and again, as before, but it was no good. After ten minutes she gave up, slammed the lid down and stormed off.

Sitting, arms crossed, she watched Coronation Street with her parents. Her mum glanced over. Something was obviously up (again): tickling her hair, she asked, but got the teen shrug.

On the phone, when they'd all gone out, she talked to Amelia, "So, I can't play it, I just can't."

"Why not tell him you can't. Tell him and see if he'll give you something easier."

She drew a big 'A' for Amelia on the pad next to the wall-mounted phone. "I can't. Besides, he'd only say I have to practice it more. He'll probably give me another page of Czerny to loosen up, or whatever he calls it." Next to the 'A' she embellished an angry 'C' for Czerny.

"Well, tell him you don't like Bach. Get him to give you something else to play."

"Mmm... yes, but actually, I quite like Bach, when it's done properly. I just wish it was something a bit easier." In the narrow space between the 'A' and the 'C' she inserted a 'B' for Bach.

Before ascending the stairs for bed, she glanced at the phone pad. 'ABC' glowered back at her. She was calmer after her bath, but her mood darkened when she remembered the earlier secretive phone call. Her dreams of running for departing buses left her exhausted by the morning and she was silent during breakfast. Her mother kissed the top of her head (again) and called her poppet (again). It breached her outer defences and made her smile.

That afternoon, she shuffled the music on the stand and opened the Bach Prelude Number 5 page next to her music teacher. "I..." she faltered, then remembering Amelia's words steadied herself, "I don't want to do this any more. This piece."

"Oh!" he abruptly replied, more of a question than a comeback. "Why?"

"It's just... I can't get it right. It's too difficult. Here–" She pointed to the faltering section. "Can't you give me something easier to do?"

"Simpler?" He inwardly considered the term in comparison to the exacting heights of 'difficult' he'd had to assault as a pianist and accompanist– assault and sometimes fail. "No, I don't think so. It's only difficult because you haven't got it right yet. I recommend Czerny – pages..." He thumbed through the well-thumbed book of finger exercises.

There – she was instantly defeated. She sat petulantly, going through the section of exercises; triples, quadruples, quintuples, and so on. They were nothing more than meaningless arpeggio phrases. Her mouth was downcast and she considered jumping up, telling him to go to hell and storming off. But then, way before he normally did and after only a handful of repetitions, he picked up the Czerny and closed it.

"Back to the Bach." he ordered.

She picked up the dog-eared edition and turned to the dog-chewed page upon which were scrawled his hideous pencil markings – circles here, fingering sequences there, dynamic emphasis all over the place. She sighed. He ignored. She started, but he said, "No, not from the beginning. From there–" he pointed to the difficult bit. She began from there and couldn't believe what happened. Her fingers glided over the section she was sure was the breaking of her. He stopped her and told her to play it again. She did and played it even better the second time. He made her repeat it ten times or more and each time it seemed to improve one way or another.

At the end of the half-hour he wrote in her lesson book and smiled a little, waiting for her to leave. At the door, she turned and smiled the briefest of satisfactory smiles back at him. It was better, much better, than even he had expected.

 

Peeping Dick

He stepped gingerly through the glassed double doors onto the small, tarmacked flat rooftop that overlooked the narrow back garden below. At first there didn't seem much to it – a quiet spot to view the dark garden that dripped cold and wet in the early autumn. Above, the pink reflective evening clouds blew over the dark treetops. He turned, going back inside to finish the Maths homework for that night, when something bright caught his eye.

Earlier that afternoon he had for the first time noticed that the poorly painted windows of the bathroom were actually doors. Later that year the 'rear rooftop garden with views’ would prove a saleable asset to the central London terraced townhouse. They had moved into the house only six weeks before and there were still lots of little hidden places he had yet to really sniff out. He’d struck gold in the previous week when he stumbled upon a Dutch porn magazine, all hairy minges and turnips, naughtily hidden in the recesses of a built-in cupboard in his bedroom. It was by far the most stimulating thing his eyes had ever lighted upon and kept his quiet night times fully and secretly occupied.

Always fascinated with womankind –their hair, their faces, even their hands– he’d told himself that one day he’d have a girlfriend that he could touch and would want to be touched. He knew he’d fall in love – he’d already done so lots of times, but was too shy and awkward to do anything about it. One day he’d be a vigorous lover, if not an unstoppable rutting stag or rampant bull. But that was all in the future.

To his right he saw the light go on in the bathroom window of the neighbour’s basement flat. Not only did the light go on, but the woman also proceeded to undress – before his very eyes. He carefully crouched down by the little edged walling around the rooftop and held his breath, aware that he could be seen if the woman was to come to the window and glance upwards. She stripped to her bra and panties and then took them off too, taking time to stand still, presumably looking in a mirror, and then sat for a little while on the toilet right under the window.

He gasped! Never before had he seen a real live naked lady. It created such a sensation, a much stronger arousal than he’d experienced watching the rude Scandinavian naturist documentary he remembered a few years before. It was different from the lady on the beach whose towel dropped mid-way through the change. It was different from the rolled up copy of Mayfair he’d found left in a bush or anything else he’d witnessed and stored in his memory, for this naked lady was spied un-posed in a completely natural setting, doing natural things. It somehow seemed better.

She wiped, stood up, turned around, flushed the toilet: his heart raced. He saw her breasts full frontal – amazing! She stood there naked again, although further away from the window. Now he only caught sight of her lower legs. Then she disappeared. He thought she’d probably gone into the shower. He stayed put. After five minutes be began to feel the cold. By now he was the hunter who had seen his quarry and was prepared to sit out discomfort for the sake of full extended glmpse.

And patience was its own reward: out she stepped and toweled down, rubbing her lady parts, even bending over to towel-dry her hair so that her little boobies wiggled. His willy, already stiff since the first glance, further stiffened to a rock of gargantuan intensity. He felt giddy and breathless and wanted to play with it.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped – the light went out and the toilet was plunged into the darkness from which it had come. He stood up and breathed a heavy sigh, a little unsure of what to do now. He went back inside, locking the two doors; his new best friends. Perhaps the lady would take a shower at the same time each day. He would have to come outside tomorrow evening to stand vigil, even if it rained.

Over the next few weeks, before moving again, he would occasionally see the lady in the bathroom, and her friend who sometimes visited, and even get to see her in bed watching TV when she left the curtains open. She didn't wear pyjamas. Or a negligee. One day she had a man sitting in bed with her, which he didn’t like much: he feared that seeing a naked man might turn him into a homosexual, something his friends said was certainly bound to happen. He didn’t want to be a homosexual, so whenever the man appeared he would instantly go back inside, cursing him for getting in the way of his pleasant evening viewing.

Children Play

What sort of childhood do you recall? Happy and carefree with hours of play without adult supervision, or committed, focused and future-laden? 

What sort of games did you play? Were they whole community games based in groups and teams, pounding games of close friends with skipping ropes, rule-bound sports games of competition with a ball of some sort, or were they based on sitting together in communication, or those strange wordy games that showed some sort of mastery of the English language? 

Perhaps your games were all rush and no substance like Tag, British Bulldog or Hot Lava – where everything was lava except the furniture or things to keep you off the ground.

Were your paired games quick bouts of Naughts-and-Crosses/Tic-Tac-Toe or marathon sessions of Battleships or Tiddlywinks? Perhaps you used a deck of cards – UNO, Trumps or even Pokemon. Perhaps you made the rules up as you developed the game –perhaps you negotiated. Were Rock, paper scissors quick one-offs or did you keep a tally?

Did you play, both boys and girls, at House, Doctors and Nurses, or did you love it when someone suggested Kiss Chase? Did it later develop into Spin the Bottle? Was it extraordinarily exciting and daring, or embarrassing and awkward?

Were you more of an aggressive, excitement-led child that played Red Hands, where ever-increasing slapping led to ever-more painful hands? Did you wait until the weekend and find a river to dam, a mud pie building site to develop, a tree-top castle to storm, or survey thum open prairies to ride 'em up and then shoot the pisky Rid Injuns when they showed up.

Did you take to the challenge of fishing? Did your gang go exploring on bikes? Did Lego do it for you, with friends or alone? Was it trains, ponies, Scalextric or tea sets? Or did you play out stories with Thunderbirds/Doctor Who/Captain Scarlet/Barbie figurines? Were you at your happiest after school waiting out Jackanory with a glass of milk until Scooby Doo or Crackerjack, or did you use your pocket money to buy the latest weekly edition of the Beano and Warlord or Twinkle and Bunty? Did you get out of your parents' hair by doing Saturday at the pictures, or enjoy having a stack of Disney videos piled up next to the television? Did you meet up at the swimming pool to play sharks and dare each other to jump off the top board?

Did you practice show-jumping whilst slowly throttling Beauty with a tightly-wound scarf around the neck? Did your worried mum later ask why you had burn marks on your throat? Did you plan and execute the landings at Normandy, including the storming of machine gun posts dug in behind so much barbed wire that one of your commandos had to lie over it to allow the others to leap across and onwards to battle? Did you then get into trouble with your mum for having footprints all over the back of your shirt? 

Did you widen the scope of your imagination, acquire and master new skills and settle differences by working together? Did you learn how to prepare for an expedition, how to recover from injury, how to socialise with awkward people, how to set rules and what should be done when someone broke them? 

Could you find out who you were? Were you allowed to be yourself? Were you allowed time to grow up? Was it so different for me? Or did you spend most of your time with nothing more than a brightly-lit computer screen? How much of your life involved extra-homework with your parents' eyes regularly cast over your inexorable progress?