Childhood

He Is The Eggman

by Enormous on March 23, 2008

When I got home from the Enormous rehearsal yesterday, I sat in the studio with a big, dark chocolate Easter egg from the Co-op and a bottle of fighting rum from the off-license ready for an afternoon of mixing some execrable heavy-metal music.

As I was closing the big sash windows in the control-room, my attention was drawn to a group of small children who were playing in the street below. They were singing a well known nursery rhyme:

‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.’

It made me realise how such innocent verse can often be very candid and prescient, and how effective it is at teaching essential life lessons. The above rhyme concerning Mr Dumpty’s fatal mishap, for instance, demonstrates very succinctly how imprudent it would be to employ horses – especially horses belonging to a king – in the mending of broken eggs. It simply cannot be done. No opposable thumbs, you see.

On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
London Calling – The Clash

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The Man Behind The Curtain

by Enormous on February 21, 2008

My brother has been talking recently about how he hates receiving visitors at his flat.

I reminded him yesterday of something he used to do, some rather bizarre behaviour that used to provide me with hours of endless amusement, all those years ago when we both lived at home.

He has always been a vaguely eccentric fellow and at times even a little odd. I am sure he would not mind me telling you this and neither would he deny it; it is merely an essential element and primary facet – one of many – that combine to make a truly fascinating, unique and remarkable individual.

I asked him if he could remember when he was about eight-years-old and he was going through a peculiar phase of hurriedly secreting himself away somewhere in the sitting-room whenever there was a caller at the family home. His favourite hiding place was behind the long curtains that hung in front of the French windows.

Whenever there was a knock on the front door, he would immediately stop whatever it was he was doing and bolt behind the red velvet curtains in order that he wouldn’t have to speak to whoever it was at the door, should they be allowed into the house and enter the room.

My mother was invariably forced into excusing her young son’s irregular behaviour to whoever it was that had come to visit her – the meter reader, the man from the Pru, or one of her male friends from the council – because my little brother’s Paddington Bear plimsolls and white ankle socks were at all times still visible beneath the hem of the heavy curtains. ‘He’s a little shy,’ she used to say.

‘He’s a little idiot,’ I would add, helpfully.

He would quietly remain there for the duration of the visit and, try as we might, could not be coaxed to come out from the comfort and safety of his beloved hiding place.

I mentioned to him also in our brief conversation yesterday how I am slightly worried by the fact that he still exhibits this strange behaviour even now, when he is in his thirties, whenever he is at my house.

Old habits die hard, I suppose.

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Dog's Fog Jog Hog Shock

by Enormous on February 10, 2008

It was very foggy at 8:am this morning when Audrey and I were jogging around the park.

About half-way around, I noticed that she was no longer following me; she had stopped to inspect something underneath one of the wild rosebushes that border the dilapidated tennis courts. She was only about 10 metres behind me along the path but I could hardly make her out in the dense mist. Ignoring my calls to hurry along, she remained immobile, seemingly fascinated by something lying on the ground. I doubled back, curious to see what she had found.

There in front of her was a small brown ball of prickly spikes. She looked at me, looked back at the ball, looked at me, wagged her tail and emitted five barks in quick succession. ‘What the **** is that!?’

‘That’s a hedgehog, Audrey – he’s just woken up from his long winter’s sleep,’ I informed her.

‘Well, what the hell do I do with it?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘Let’s leave him alone, shall we.’ I said, ‘We don’t want to disturb him.’

Placing her wet nose close to his spikes, she tried to find out more about this odd creature by utilising her powerful olfactory senses. It moved slightly and she recalled in horror, leaping about three feet into the air as if one of her clumsy paws had triggered a landmine. I was laughing so much I feared I would lose consciousness and collapse on to the soggy grass, to be stumbled upon later by a surprised mid-morning dog-walker.

Audrey’s shock and awe reminded me of the first time I saw a jellyfish on the beach at Robin Hood’s Bay when I was an inquisitive 5 year-old boy on holiday with his grandparents. I was convinced I had discovered an alien and would not leave until I was satisfied I had killed the evil monster by repeatedly stabbing at it with a piece of driftwood dutifully handed to me by my smiling grandfather.

What innocence and wonder we experience when encountering bizarre animals for the very first time. It is also significant, is it not, that while I, a human boy, felt compelled to render my discovery lifeless, my little dog merely wanted to play with hers.

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Climbing Trousers

by Enormous on February 3, 2008

‘Billy, come down from there!’ his mother chided him in agonised entreaty. ‘Those are your best trousers!’

‘No they’re not,’ shouted the little boy. He scrambled even higher up the wall. ‘These are my climbing trousers.’

Hearing the querulous squeals of little Billy on the rec’ this morning and watching this anxious woman wringing her hands in maternal dismay reminded me of similar happy altercations with my own mother all those years ago. And when the scruffy youngster made reference to his ‘climbing trousers’, I was immediately transported back to my childhood.

I, too, was provided with a pair of climbing trousers: robust apparel intended specifically for rough and lively play. I loved them. I cannot say the same about my Sunday trousers, however. I hated those – smart and grey and always at risk of becoming accidentally damaged thus resulting in me receiving a clip around the ear from my cruel father.

The ones I hated the most, though, were the trousers that belonged to my school uniform. Urgh. It makes me shudder now in disgust just to think of them: Navy blue, too short, too loose and always at risk of falling down around my ankles at grossly inappropriate moments. They never actually did, but the very fact that they had the dangerous potential to do so made my time at St Edmund’s Junior School much less than the cheerful experience it might otherwise have been.

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