The coloured bit of paper used when crafting the above image means that I am in planning mode. I say that with a strange sense of victory, since the commencement of planning coincides with the first free day I have had for months and months. In this very moment my obligations to other people are at an all-time low. How wonderful that feels! The only deadline I have is the constant overriding one: the thought and reality that there is never enough time, and we haven’t a moment to lose. Before we know it, our lives will be over – and then what? Need I say that in the short time it took me to write this paragraph, another small job landed in my inbox? Probably not. Sweet pleasures, short lived. Story of my life.
I seldom worry about what happens on earth after I die, since I presume it will be no concern of mine. While I am here, what concerns me needs attending to, and needs a certain amount of planning to stay on the intended track, albeit in my case with the aid of coloured pencils and coloured pieces of paper. It makes the difficult task of looking back and looking ahead that much more palatable.
My first story takes us way back to the time of the Romans, and to my adolescence which, as you will see over the course of the next few posts, I am glad to have left behind me, even though I did emerge relatively unscathed:
The first real crush I had was on an older girl who was reading a lesson in the school chapel.
The way she enunciated the words, “Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good” in a RADA* sort of way sent me into raptures which earned her my private adoration for a long time thereafter.
I was shy, back then. Perhaps in this case, it was just as well.
* The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.
Another budding interest of mine at the time – that of learning to play the guitar – induced what some might call blasphemy of the secular kind:
At about 14, I started group guitar lessons with a second-hand, warped guitar.
I was never really very good, but followed conventional wisdom, and soaked the fingertips of my left hand in methylated spirits every day to toughen them up.
When my cousin, at the request of my uncle, brought me a real guitar from South Africa, I learned that I could still sing in tune irrespective of the noise I was producing on any instrument and that, really, one should never, ever blame one’s tools for poor workmanship.
The next story may explain why when people tell me something personal about themselves which is potentially shocking, I am seldom as shocked as they expect me to be. We all have feet of clay, and the sooner we realise that, the better. It is what it is:
Labels are strange. This one could easily be the name of a Roman goddess, for instance. When I was sixteen, not a lot of things made sense, but puking repeatedly did. Go figure.
On balance though, I ate more than I puked, so I never lost weight. I puked diligently for about five or six years. During this period, I managed to pass my “O” and “A” levels, and the first two years of university.
I trailed off on the vomiting naturally, until one day I realised I had not done it for quite a while. I suppose it gradually dawned on me that I was not such a freak after all. Even if I were, it did not really matter enough to hurl my intestines out over it.
On that rather sickening note, I might as well tell you that the first story in the next blog involves rather a lot of cow manure. If you cannot wait to find out the details, you can always purchase the book immediately from Amazon. To order your own copy, click on the picture below:
© 2015 Allison Wright