26th Sep 2018

Before I write these chapters, I often hear parts of them in my mind. So much so that sometimes I’m sure I’ve written some of it already. To make sure I haven’t though, I do a quick check. I also have a structural plan, listing out what’s in the chapters already, as well as what’s to come. Although a lot of what I focus on tends to be about incidents that occurred, the people involved often come back to me as if I’d met them in a dream where they no longer have faces but still, there’s a feeling of who they were.

* * *

Before the Internet and mobile phones became commonplace, if you met someone and wanted to stay in contact there’d possibly be a brief opportunity to ask for their address or phone number. There’d be a bit of tension between imposing oneself or risking never seeing them again. Deciding which way to go would have to be based on working out whether the other party wanted to stay in contact too, and often that wasn’t clear. Still, there was a sadness when details weren’t exchanged, but in a way, it was a sweet pain that could sometimes haunt people for a lifetime.

Nowadays, it’s much easier. One asks an acquaintance if they don’t mind being added to whatever social network their age group uses, and then, if you do send a message, it’ll merely be a “good to meet you,” type one, and often, that’s that.

In a later chapter, we’ll be looking at romantic love and yearning in more detail, especially in terms of it being set out as a type of decorum. However, even now with all our ways of connecting, we’re still prone to feelings of yearning and loss. It could be as fleeting as looking into someone’s eyes as they pass on a train, or maybe someone who you share moments with for a while, only to find they are gone without a trace. Are we taught to connect and yearn, or is it something we naturally can’t avoid?

I’m often struck by how accurate our intuition can be when first meeting people and knowing well before talking to a stranger if we’ll click or not. Of course, there may well be plenty of subconscious cues involved but sometimes the amount of information is so limited that it leaves a bit of room for other, more ethereal possibilities. There are plenty of times my antennae got it wrong too, but that tends to happen less so.

* * *

1984 – Tavistock – Therapy

The Therapist asks, “Do you think your childhood experiences could have affected how you are today?”

“No,” I answer.

* * *

Summer 1977 – Butlins Holiday Camp – Bognor Regis

I am at the front of one of the big amusement arcades. The whole facade is made of glass doors and windows with aluminium frames around them.

I’m singing along to something on the Tannoy. A girl with blonde hair looks at me. She’s about my age, I can’t recall her face, but she has a kindness about her. She’s looking after a young child, but I don’t think it’s hers.

She smiles at me and says, “You’ve got a nice voice.”

I didn’t know I was singing loud enough for her to hear. I smile and thank her, but I feel embarrassed. I know I’m turning red. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t stay to chat and walk away.

Later that day, it’s night-time and my friend Peter and I are on the way back to our chalet. We pretend to be drunk and loud. We are only 12, fooling around, staggering and shouting, “We’re drunk.” The same girl sees us, and looking worried, she tells the child she’s looking after not to worry. I hear her say, “They’re just being silly.” She rushes off but has stayed in my mind for close to 5 decades.

* * *

1989

My friend Ian Owles and I are walking near Tottenham Court Road in London. He’s about 46 but looks a lot younger. He’s got lots of curly hair and a rock-n-roll demeanour.

“The first rule of love,” he says, “is, those you want, they won’t want you, and those you don’t will”.

“What’s the second rule?” I ask laughing.

“The second rule of love is this,” he pauses and smiles, “When you’re alone no one wants you but when you’re with someone you get loads of offers.”

We’re getting into my Saab. A couple of women pass by, and one says to Ian, “I love Saabs.” This was fortuitous because I was trying to get Ian to buy it and after she said that, he did. He was buying a dream, whilst I was trying to get rid of the reality, the cost of running it, which at the time was a bit of a nightmare.

* * *

1975

It was the last year of junior school, and our class was taken to the swimming pool at Wilson’s School every week. There was a girl in our class called Debbie who I was in love with. On this occasion, she was standing at the other end of the pool in a green bikini. If this was a film then there’d be a slow-motion sequence of her climbing up to the diving board.

For the first time, I looked at her and saw her as a goddess. Long black hair, a beautiful figure and long, long legs that went all the way to the top. After school, I asked her if she fancied a lift home on the back of my bike, and she said yes. The rest might have been history, (okay, that’s highly doubtful) if only I had been able to peddle and steer the bike with her on the back, but I couldn’t. So, we swapped positions, and she cycled while I sat on the back instead.

Probably from the age of nine till about fifteen I had a massive crush on Debbie, but no matter how much I tried to let her know I couldn’t. Even when she asked me outright if I fancied her because let’s face it, it was obvious to everyone anyway, I still denied it. And the reason why I did that was I didn’t want to face reality. You see, deep down, I quite liked yearning for her and hearing her say no would have meant I’d have to find someone else to yearn for.

When I got older, I came to see this situation as a valuable lesson and learnt that it’s better to tell someone if you fancy them, obviously when the time is right and if it’s appropriate of course, and better to be rejected than to waste years yearning unnecessarily.

By the way, if anyone reads this, takes my advice then ends up getting married because of it, then please let me know. However, if you end up in jail, I probably won’t want to know, but then again…

As the joke goes: “My girlfriend says I’m a stalker. Well, she’s not exactly my girlfriend yet.”

* * *

1977 – Wilson’s School – Laughing Stock

I was waiting outside a classroom with a load of other kids. Somehow, I got into a fight with a boy called Paul. The other kids started chanting as I took a few steps back, then ran towards him. I leapt into the air to do a flying kick (I was always useless at jumping so probably went downward immediately). He stepped sideways, I landed on the floor, and he restrained me. Everyone started laughing, including him.

The teacher turned up soon after, so everyone acted as if nothing had happened, but as we walked into the classroom one of the other boys taunted me about losing the fight. I pushed him which caused him to stagger and fall backwards over a chair. The class laughed at him spread-eagled on the floor and for a moment, I found a modicum of redemption.

* * *

1977 – Wilson’s School – Tuck Shop

Every school day at 10:30 there was a break between lessons. Downstairs on the ground floor in the foyer, a large metal hatch opened in the foyer wall. This was where a couple of parents volunteered to sell sweets to us. I tended to go through phases of buying the same sweet every day until eventually, I’d get bored. One week it’d be a peanut Yorkie, the next a Lion Bar, but this week it was 50 aniseed balls. They’d take a while to count out, which didn’t go down well with the queue behind me.

There are two types of people in the world, those that divide the world into two types of people, and those that don’t. You can also divide people into “biters” or “suckers”. “Suckers” take their time with a hard-boiled sweet, whereas, “biters”, no matter how much they try, can’t stop themselves from crunching their teeth down upon their prey. Some people, okay, it’s me saying this, say it’s because “biters” feel less nurtured, so tend to be a bit more eager to devour, whereas “suckers” are more content deep down and don’t need to possess the sweet so quickly. And yes, I’m a biter.

* * *

1976 – Roundshaw Park – Franny

Roundshaw was covered by low-hanging grey clouds as I made my way to the park. Franny, the girl I mentioned in the previous chapter who’d pop around and try my mum’s costume jewellery for size, was playing on the swings nearby. I thought she was pretty but there was a three-year age gap between us, and at that age, that was a significant difference.

I sat on the swing next to her and after chatting for a few minutes asked her if she wanted to see the den some friends and I had built a few days earlier in the woods. She laughed and said, “Okay then.” So, we made our way to it which involved crawling through some bushes. Once inside I took off my parker coat and laid it on the ground so we could both sit on its orange lining.

“Do you want to kiss me?” She said.

“Yes,” I said, slightly taken aback by her being more forward than me.

I can’t remember what kind of kissing we did but we ended up lying on the coat side-by-side. I liked kissing her, but I didn’t want anyone to know. That age difference, even then, was a bit much. Just as I started thinking, “Now, how am I going to make sure no one finds out we’ve been kissing without annoying her,” a group of friends cycled past, pulled up and through the foliage shouted.

“Hello Simon, Hello Franny… Ooooh, what are you two doing then?”

She looked at me, and said, “So, do you want to be my boyfriend?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Why not, don’t you fancy me?”

“Yeah, but you’re too young.”

“Well, I ain’t too young to kiss, am I?”

I was tempted to say she was but thought that might not go down well in court in 30 years. So, I said we might have to wait a few years.

Still, there were times when I’d want to see her, so, as mentioned in the last chapter, I’d get her to pop around, or we’d bump into each other anyway at the youth club. I think the last time I saw her was in 1979, all I can recall was having a kiss with her near some garages. I didn’t mind her passing me her well-chewed chewing gum as we snogged, but when she lit a cigarette and started to smoke. I said I didn’t like smoking, and that was the end of it.

* * *

2018 – Franny

I thought it might be a good idea to get in contact with Franny to get permission to use her name in this story. It didn’t take long to find her on Facebook. She still has the same pretty face and looks happy with her husband and kids.

When I messaged her, she told me the memories she had of me were nice ones. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d got me mixed up with somebody else.

* * *

2017 – Archetypes

When I was ill in hospital, I felt like I was submerged within an archetypal type of reality that felt heavy, dark, threatening and unavoidable. At times I imagined I was in cloisters and the people moving around me were archetypal nurses, doctors, and religious figures, which is not surprising given some nurses are called sisters, which derives from nuns being curers and carers in the past.

I was heavily sedated at the time and felt close to death, so it was as if many layers of my day-to-day existence had been stripped away. The thing was, it scared me to recognise those around me as archetypes, which most likely came about because archetypes lack humanity with their fixed personas. This is probably why many people fear clowns too, after all their expression barely changes and that makes them appear as not being human.

Archetypes are programmed to behave in a set manner, and no matter how much you try to appeal to them, they can only react as their role permits. They also symbolise the frightening reality that everything is programmed. From DNA to our daily routines, to our inescapable destiny. Archetypes remind us we are part of a programmed system that can’t be avoided or bargained with, and at times, especially when humans lose their humanity, they too can’t be appealed to.

* * *

1977/2018 – Elvis

Franny’s sister, who’s now a friend of mine on Facebook, recently shared one of my posts, so I went to her page to politely like the post as one does. The post above it was about Justin Sandor who’s an excellent Elvis impersonator. I can do a good impersonation of Elvis’s voice, but nowhere near as accurately as Sandor can. On August 16th, 1977, Elvis Presley died. At the time, I didn’t pay much attention, I don’t think it even registered with me. At the age of 12, the adult world, the evening news, and even pop music were barely of any interest to me, but within a year Elvis and his music started to play a big part in my life and would eventually have a profound effect on my life. At about the same time as Elvis passed away, my childhood did so too, but I wasn’t aware of that then either.

* * *

1977 – Hi-Fidelity

Mum had some money left over from her mother’s inheritance and decided to spend it on some furniture and a HiFi system. This meant I could have her old stereo in my room. Each night before going to sleep I’d listen to a side of a vinyl LP through big bulky headphones. Tom Jones, Neil Sedaka, or the latest Top of the Pops albums would take me halfway to sleep. The Top of the Pops albums were cheap compilations of popular songs recorded by cover artists. To my untrained teenage ears, the songs sounded like the originals and any quality issues were more than compensated for by the soft porn covers and life-size posters of women in bikinis. No doubt some people fell asleep next to them too, but mine were safely blu-tacked to the wall along with posters of the Wombles and David Cassidy. Just so you know, it took a lot of soul-searching for me to admit I had a poster of David Cassidy to you.

* * *

2017 – Archetypes

“To everything, there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

These famous lines from Ecclesiastes will touch many of us deeply while simultaneously scaring us too. For me, they remind me that no matter what I write, sing, paint or photograph, one day it will all disappear forever and no matter what I do, or how much I appeal for mercy, there will be a time to lose, break down, and die.

When I brushed up against archetypes in my hospitalised state, I felt the same intransigence. Their mask-like expressions were fixed as was their raison d’etre. But still, their season of reigning was an ancient one, reaching back to the beginning of humankind.

Carl Jung stated there were, “identical psychic structures common to all,” influencing all of us in how we experience the world. What this meant is whilst different cultures or individuals create varying symbols or characters, there will still be a commonality between them. This is because the psychological makeup of humans will always create them. For instance, the feelings we have for our mothers, fathers, authority, ourselves, strangers, water, the moon, the sun, the stars or that which we believed created us; all these things, will nearly always fill our inner worlds in similar ways, wherever or whenever we come from.

* * *

2018

We all know everyone is capable of being good or bad. The same goes for archetypes, each of them will be one face of a two-sided coin because it’s human nature to be split between opposing desires. The paradox of explaining the human psyche using archetypes though is, whilst they touch us with their ability to illustrate reality, they are unrecognisable as humans. Real people switch between various archetypal roles all the time, whereas archetypes take on only one and stick with it forever.

In addition to our cultural archetypes, our individual experiences will result in us creating our personal ones too. So, if for instance, we look at our dreams to get an insight into our inner world and limit ourselves to interpreting them via cultural references only, then we’ll miss out on our individual symbols and archetypes. That’s why a psychoanalyst will often ask, “What does it mean to you?”

None of us can deny we are programmed to some extent, whether it be by nature, society, family, environment or other experiences and on top of all of those, our instincts will still play a large part in defining who we are. So, whilst there have been many attempts to reprogram people to act and think in certain ways, whether it be via religion, ideological dogma, education, hypnosis, or the media, there are still limits. Try to program people not to fall in love, not to feel turned on, not to feel jealous, and not to fear loss. If you do, there’ll be errors that lead to a “crash” straight into the wall of our subconscious. There’s been a lot of talk lately about ‘enhancing’ our psyches via genetic reprogramming. However, if that were ever to happen, then one could argue our archetypal structures would also change and then even our archetypes would find they have a season too.

* * *

2018 – Punch and Judy Program

Newsreader: “Barry Island has banned the performance of “Punch and Judy” amid fears it is too violent and contains, “inappropriate hitting”. The show which portrays an abusive relationship between Mr. Punch and his wife Judy has been claimed by one councillor as treading a fine line. The Punch and Judy Fellowship argues that by their logic Shakespeare and Tom and Jerry should also be banned. Several other councils have banned the show too.”

The belief people can be programmed seems to be popular within some circles and to a point it it may be possible. But deep down, we all know many other factors are at play, and some of those include the ancient archetypes that inhabit our inner worlds. From what I can tell though, they’re not that keen on the scripts our current stage directors are handing out.

* * *

2018 – Dream – The Sea is Breaking Against my Front Door

I look out my window, the sea is breaking hard against my house. I can also see hundreds of battle craft along the shoreline, some of which are semi-submerged. It’s scary and awe-inspiring at the same time but as the dark waves swirl, I wonder how long my home will bear the battering.

After I wake up, I try to analyse the dream. My initial interpretation is the sea is my feelings and desires, crashing up against my home, which symbolises security. The battle craft represents my own resources, conscious and subconscious, to either defend or attack myself or others. Thinking about it like that, made sense and reminded me to be cautious, to keep in mind I’m never far from the parts of myself that can be very self-destructive. All that said, I did check my house insurance covered flood damage, you know, just in case it was me being a bit psychic.

* * *

1989 – Carmen Jones – Hi-Infidelity

I’m in the stalls in The Old Vic Theatre in London. I’m watching an opera called Carmen Jones. I feel nauseous. There’s something about the character of Carmen that makes me feel very anxious. Maybe it was seeing one of my archetypes in the flesh. She being the woman who is not faithful to me. On the one hand, it may relate to feelings about my mother, while on the other, does she represent who I’ve become too? I have a propensity to be unfaithful and if I am like that, then I can’t be a good partner, and if I can’t be a good partner then maybe I’ll be alone forever, trapped in a world of unfaithful relationships. Carmen reveals a part of myself that scares me to the core.

* * *

1984 – South Kensington Underground Station

I’m waving goodbye to a woman called Carol. We’d met a few weeks previously at Roehampton Hospital where we’d got chatting and seemed to hit it off. We arranged to meet up, so she came to visit me for the day. We had had a lovely cold Autumn afternoon walk in Battersea Park, talked, and laughed for hours, then cuddled up in my room and kissed till it went dark and she had to go. In a matter of hours, I had fallen in love with her, well it wasn’t really with her, was it, and I knew it.

As the train pulled away, I waved and bowed my head to say goodbye. In this underground world, I had a moment of understanding during which I knew something was wrong with me. It didn’t seem appropriate to have such strong feelings for a stranger, even a perfect stranger. This wasn’t the first time either. I’d met this archetype many times in both my dreams and reality, but in my dreams, I could never remember her face.

* * *

1984 – Oh Carol, I am such a Fool

As the days passed after our romantic afternoon, I started grieving for the loss of a relationship that didn’t exist. Realising something was amiss I decided to talk about it to Roger, our student services advisor, at college. As we sat in his dark and cluttered office, he asked me a few questions about what had happened and suggested I try out an offer of 4 free counselling sessions in the adolescent department at The Tavistock Centre. So, I called them and booked a session.

* * *

1984 – The Tavistock Institute of Human Relations

I’m in a plain room, there’s a desk near the window, a grey metal filing cabinet, a small sofa, a couple of chairs, and some prints on the walls. A middle-aged woman, who I’ve immediately warmed to, has brought me here from the waiting room. She introduced herself to me. I’ll refer to her as Mrs H.

We sit opposite each other. She doesn’t say anything. I feel a bit uncomfortable with the silence. Eventually, I get what’s happening, so, break the silence with, “I’m here because I think there’s something wrong with me.”

She nods her head and quietly says, “Aha.”

“I recently fell in love with someone, it didn’t feel appropriate as I’d only just met her and my reaction after we parted was as if I was losing someone I’d been more involved with than I had.”

“Aha.”

Silence.

More silence.

Yep, more silence.

Finally, she asks, “Why do you think you have reacted as you have?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I came here.”

She smiles, “Well, can you tell me a little about your life?”

I shrug, “There’s not much to tell really.”

She nods slightly and smiles again, “Well, tell me a little about it anyway”.

“Okay,” I say.

* * *

1977 – Disco 45

I came across a magazine called ‘Disco 45’ which not only had articles about some of the pop stars I was beginning to take an interest in, but it also had the lyrics to many of the songs I liked too. This meant I could sing along to them. Somewhere in my house I still have them all. I know hoarding isn’t something I should show off about, but as they say, if you’ve got it, hoard it… or something like that.

One of these magazines had the lyrics to Elvis’s The Girl of My Best Friend so I started to sing along to the song and discovered I could sound a bit like him. Not only that, but the song was also filled with archetypal yearnings that resonated with me as much as the music did. Even within Elvis’s image, there were archetypal characters I longed to be. The hero-lover, the warrior and the eternal boy for a start.

* * *

October 1977 – No More Heroes

I’m in another fight. This time the other kid grabs my lapels and throws me to the floor. I get up, he throws me again. I’m not hurt much but I am aware more than ever that I’m no hero. Given the song, N0 More Heroes by the Stranglers was in the charts at the time, I could have tried to take some consolation from their anti-hero stance, but I was a rocker, not a punk, so that didn’t help me one bit.

* * *

1977 – Italy Trip

Mum had sent in a form to the school to say she wanted me to go on the school trip to Italy, and this time they decided to raise the funds for another boy to come with me to act as my carer. In real terms, he hardly had to do anything, because by this point, I could take myself to the loo, and wash and get dressed independently. Even so, the school thought it a good idea to have one person who could focus on me if the need arose.

To raise the money for his fare and board, a local appeal was made to a charitable organisation. I couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable being used as a begging bowl and maybe that made me even more determined not to use his help.

There’s always a price to pay, especially in terms of feelings of self-worth and status when it comes to raising money for people. For this Italy trip, there was a mention in the local paper about how the money had been raised and the good cause it was going to. Just like the typewriter bought for me via charity, though, I got the feeling someone was gaining something at my expense, whilst I was gaining something I didn’t want or need at a price I didn’t want to pay.

One good thing that came from all of this was this trip demonstrated to the school I didn’t need a helper, so on subsequent trips, there wasn’t ever an issue of bringing someone along to help me. So, maybe in this instance, it was a price worth paying after all.

* * *

1977 – Great Art

I was bored, it was a Sunday, so Mum gave me an oil painting set. First, I painted a landscape, maybe it was a copy of a photo, then before it was dry, I painted over some of it to make it look like a cabin on a boat with a window through which part of the original landscape was still visible. Then I painted a severed hand on the windowsill of the cabin with some blood coming out of it.

“Oh, why did you have to ruin it, Simon?” My mother’s tone was rather desperate.

I had no words to say.

She walked out huffing.

“Some people just don’t appreciate great art,” I thought to myself.

* * *

1977 – Inside Out

When I’d go out to play I’d often call on a girl called Jackie who lived around the corner. She and her parents had their quarters on the top floor of a small suburban house, whilst her aunt and their family lived on the bottom one. There was no dividing door between the two areas. It was a world away from my home.

Jackie was skinny, looked like a boy and acted like one. She and I would roam the local neighbourhood where we’d sometimes link up with a couple of brothers whose dad was known to be violent. They looked a bit like him and were already beginning to act a bit aggressively. Another boy befriended us too, he must have been a bit older and had an electric guitar, so we’d sit in his room and listen to him play. There were also a couple of girls I met who lived on a posh road in South Wallington. They were very pretty and their father would always come out to play and chat with us.

I’d often feel I didn’t know many people in this area so would sometimes head back to Roundshaw, but Jackie wasn’t allowed to go there with me. So, when I did frequent it, I’d be alone. In time I stopped visiting it so much, and even though I partially took the boy out of the estate, I’d never be able to completely take the estate out of the boy.

* * *

1977 – School Routine

The second year of school began to feel more routine. The highlight of most mornings would be singing popular hymns loudly and avoiding strategically placed hymn books positioned by the person sitting behind me, which if sat on would end up ramming my anus. This little dance would normally garner a great deal of attention from everyone else who’d managed to sit down safely. Consequently, even now I always look behind me when I sit down.

After assembly, there’d be a rush to get to class. It would either be a double lesson or two individual shorter ones, then a break for some refreshments at the tuck shop followed by a further lesson that’d take us to the lunch break. If you think reading this list is painful, I can assure you, doing them was far worse.

The smell of lunch would fill the air and then there’d be an hour of what was often close to anarchy. Not in a chaotic sense, but more in the Wild West/Lord of the Flies way. Dangerous things could happen suddenly before a teacher or prefect could intervene.

The corridors were lined with grey metal lockers, the lighting was white fluorescent, the flooring was grey, the walls were yellow brick, and the students were in black uniforms with yellow and white highlights. It was a colour scheme based on wasps, which in many ways was very apt.

After lunch, it was a slog to work and digest food simultaneously. Then after two hours of toil, there’d be ecstatic relief felt by all, as we were saved by the bell. People escape terrorist incidents slower than pupils exiting school at the end of the day.

* * *

1977 – Ginny

One day I got home after school to find my cat had been killed. She’d been run over. I was in shock so didn’t react much right away. That night, though, I could hear another cat she’d often played with at the back of the flats, calling out long droning meows.

The next day on the way to school someone told me what had happened. Ginny had run across the road and was clipped by a car which stopped. Her back legs were no longer working but she tried to crawl across the road back towards where we lived. Someone picked her up, took her back to the other side of the road then slammed her head against a wall to, as he put it, “Put her out of her misery.”

When I got to school, I was still in shock but as Mr Shaw took the register, I could feel I wanted to cry. As I went to ask him if I could go to the medical room, I couldn’t speak clearly so he asked me to repeat myself, but instead, I burst out crying. Somehow, I managed to communicate my cat had been run over, so he got one of the other boys to escort me to the medical room where I lay down and wept.

I think the elements of tragedy, her attempts to get back to our side of the road, the frustration of being taken the wrong way, and then being killed rather than being taken to a vet, all added up to an overwhelming feeling of sadness and anger.

There were also other elements to this. My feelings for her were more connected to a real sense of love and compassion compared to the selfish “in love” feelings I’d previously mourned for. And on top of that, there was a feeling of disconnection going on at home, so, in some ways, this felt like another nail in the coffin.

Milan Kundera wrote that one of the reasons we love animals as we do is because we recognise in them the innocence we lost when Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden. I doubt he meant it in any literal sense, but there’s an innocence we attribute to animals that when set against our darkness, fills us with a sense of sadness.

* * *

1977 – The Eyes of the Needle

I’m in our form’s classroom, this is where we would meet at the beginning of each school day for five years. A couple of boys have placed a large needle in the cushion of the teacher’s chair. It’s pointing vertically straight up. Mr Shaw, our teacher, walks in and sits down. There’s silence.

Suddenly there’s a startled look on his face. Some of the class start to laugh. Still, Mr Shaw doesn’t say anything but leans forward and takes out the compass needle, which is at least two inches long. I don’t remember laughing, I think I was one of the boys who thought it must have hurt a lot.

“Who put the needle in my chair?” He said firmly.

The boy who did it put his hand up immediately. I can’t remember what the punishment was but if there was one, I doubt many of us would have complained. For all my delinquent behaviour, moments of compassion were beginning to surface too.

* * *

1984 Tavistock – The Invitation

Mrs H: “We’ve had the four sessions offered by the scheme. I was wondering if you would be interested in going further and undertaking three sessions per week. I can sense in you that there is something I can work with, which I hope may help you in some way?”

“Yes, I’d love that, thank you.”

And so, my journey into the realms of psychoanalysis began.

* * *

1977 – Wilson’s School – My Enemy’s Enemy

There must have been something about maths that brought out our aggressive tendencies. I didn’t even see the beginning of this fight. Paul, the guy with whom I’d done my unspectacular flying kick was being held down on a table by a boy called Jim. Jim had the blackboard rubber in his hand and was bashing it on Paul’s head. By this point, Paul was a bright purple colour while Jim was looking calm. There was a kind of conversation going on between each whack of the blackboard rubber. Something along the lines of, “Do you submit?” To which Paul was nodding in affirmation. However, Jim, obviously doubting his sincerity, continued hitting him for good measure until he got a more convincing answer. I couldn’t help but admire Jim’s brutality and was especially pleased to see my enemy’s enemy in action.

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1977 – Jim

I don’t know how it was that I then managed to get into a face-off with Jim a few weeks later. I know I’d been extra abusive to him because he had already said he didn’t want to fight me because I was disabled, which made me angry. I think my taunts had been rather feeble, something along the lines of him smelling bad, but they did the job, although I’m pretty sure he didn’t need too much persuading anyway.

A bit later, I was in the loo and one of the other boys told me Jim wanted to fight me. I said I was on the loo so it would have to wait. There’s always a difference between a fight just breaking out and having one arranged. The waiting allows for a certain amount of fear to develop. I was scared, and probably rightly so. Jim was tough, and in time I’d get to know him more and see his whole direction in life went along a path that would put him in the top band of tough people in society.

Years later he told me I was the only person in school he had some concerns about fighting because he wondered if one of my kicks might catch him. But I think we both knew I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

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1977 – Enemy and Empathy

There were only a couple of other fights I experienced at school and both involved a degree of guilt and empathy on my part. The first was in the music class when I kicked a small table out of the way and then kicked the legs of the boy until he started crying. He was quite big so there was a feeling of accomplishment, but I could see in his tearful eyes he wasn’t a fighter and that sapped any joy I might have had. Then there was the fight I mentioned in Chapter 16 where I cornered a boy in a porchway. On both occasions, though I ended up feeling sorry for my victims.

Something was changing in me.

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