July 16 – Le Freak, c’est chic.

I squeezed a massive spot behind my ear the other day. It was probably a day off being absolutely ripe, nevertheless, or perhaps because of that, it was, by a country mile, the most satisfying thing that’s happened to me in the last three years. No, I tell a lie, seven years.

Before I’d even located the landing ground of the pus, there was a knock at the shed door. It was my father, with Mrs Robinson in tow. He, as usual, deploying his uber-narcissist toolset, didn’t speak. His business at my door, unexplained —that expression set in to his already sour face, meant that ordinary people, like me, would implicitly understand the important matters he’d called to discuss, without the need for further diegesis.

We stood in mute stand off for a moment, until, eventually, I gestured for them to come in. They hesitated halfway through an already tentative step forward, and ended up retreating a little. Of course, I am used to the smell, and they are not. It’s a pity, because I think Mrs Robinson would have enjoyed the shabby chic soft furnishings I’ve assembled.

Neil and I, our foundation course in shabby chic already complete thanks to watching Performance, would soon upgrade that know-how by dint of a real-life experience coming our way. It would seal the deal as far as interior decorating was concerned, for a lifetime for both of us. It came about during that time when we were making our university choices, and, I doubt this still exists, but back then, we used to visit them on open-days, to check them out. We’d hit upon this idea, to select three London colleges each, and to visit them all (of which ultimately, we’d actually visit but one between us, rather than three each), but by doing so, secure a week’s holiday in London, courtesy of the state.

The day before we were due to set off, Hisom, a sois-disant frank-speaking, down to earth type, challenged Neil about our plans. He had some sort of status, like third assistant deputy, in the newly-built sixth form college in which we’d found ourselves. He was the sort of joyless cove like my father, who, we suspected, had never even commentated on his own bowel movements.

“Aren’t you due to sit the Oxford entrance paper next Thursday?” he asked Neil.

“Oh that?” said Neil. “I haven’t bothered to look at their prospectus, or whatever they call their brochure, or done any of the research that people like you think is valuable, but…

Hisom interrupted him to say, “There’s still time…” or something like that.

Neil simply sighed, and continued, “but… based on my own observations, I’ve decided that everyone I know that has ever gone there, is an irredeemable cunt.”

The thing we liked best about it, was the way that Neil just continued to look him in the eye, as if they were two similar status adults, discussing the weather, or who they thought should open the batting in the next test match.

Hisom was furious beyond words, then he re-gathered himself, straightened up, and started talking about the school, its traditions, and heritage, but good old Neil cut him off before he got going. I just loved that he’d remembered to pay him back for his ill manners, by doing the same back to him, but then he said: “This? It’s like being educated in a fucking motorway services station.”

Only now, as I reflect on that scene, do I see hear words, which I thought were so smart at the time, coming out of a child’s face, in a child’s voice.

I have an adult’s voice now, so I said to Mrs Robinson, who was either too polite, or too scared, to say out loud that which she’d complained to my father about, “I’d tell you to shut your face, if you had the courage to open it in the first place.” I tried to do my best impression of Neil, as I returned my father’s furious glower.

I don’t know what had caused the complaint. It had been made at the end of that day when I was out of it, at the party she’d organised.  I’d have probably said something like, “Are you up here too?” Nothing horrible, or insulting. I don’t talk to people that way, it’s not in my nature. I save it for moments like that when I know that they have overstepped the mark, or decided as a group that I’m a bad ‘un, and probably did whatever it is they want me to have done.

I have rediscovered the confidence to stick to my guns. Nobody knows me better than I understand myself, and it is up to me to love and cherish that person, because nobody else does. Retreating back into those memories of my time with Neil, has re-galvanised me a little, and I sense that it’s turning into something good. I wasn’t a deferential twit scared of living, back then. My father modelled that, not me. And now, I’ve connected again with that good thing I used to be. If that creates social friction as a side product, so what? I’m still going there.

Father made an attempt to re-open the subject later in the day, but it’s too little-too late for that cove to show any interest in my welfare, or nurturing now. Besides which, his motivation was probably more about destroying a little bit more of what remained of my self-esteem. That’s why, shortly after crumpet-hour, he found the shed area roped-off, and a small flag, establishing independence of the territory, hoisted.

You’d think I wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself, given all that has happened. You don’t know about that, yet, of course, I haven’t told you about it yet. But bollocks to that. We independent now. We big, we bold. And we bad if we have to be.

On that trip to London, Neil and I took our first bold steps into adulthood. I achieved more in that week than I did in all those years where father’s mentorship stopped at dumping me in front of the tele for days and nights one end, as my sole instrument of education, nurture, and succour. He didn’t like what came back at the end of that week. But I did. Do.

We went as passengers of Nobby Clarke, in his lorry. And I’ll tell you all about that, next time.