Stories From the Last Century

Trev's mum was back in hospital over the weekend. She became listless and generally lethargic. Didn't want anything to eat, couldn't be bothered with anything much and the doctor came to see her. She's still in much of a housebound state because of the broken hip she suffered when she fell a few months back.

Trev and I went to see her in hospital when we could. She sat in the chair by the 3rd floor window (4th floor for Americans). She enjoyed a wonderful view across glorious townscapes as well as countryside. It was like looking over parkland.

I can't remember how we got around to the subject, but I was reminded of a story from my childhood.

I couldn't have been more than six because we moved from that house when I was that age. I believe I was younger even than that. Younger than our granddaughter is now.

My Grandad was always a bad influence on me - I being the first grandchild, was the apple of his eye.

He taught me so many things and especially poems.

For example:

Said mother tern to baby tern,
"Would you like a brother?"
Said baby tern to mother tern,
"Yes, one good tern deserves another."

Not my fault.

Anyway... I recollected a story and told Trev's mum.

We had a good-sized dining table at our house. It seated four comfortably and had fold-down leaves. I remember sitting at the table in the old house. It was set against the wall and only one leaf would be open to enable me to sit there for my lunch.

I loved yet hated Heinz chicken soup. I loved the soup part, but the bits of chicken were too fibrous for me. My mother told me off for leaving the pieces of chicken on my plate, so I had no alternative. The three-year-old me turned to the wall and spat out the pieces of chicken so the dog could eat them.

I mimicked the 'ptoo' 'ptoo' action for the sake of the story.

Source

That story reminded me of another - because of the association with the table.

Three-year-old me learned another poem.

Now, I had a quirky little mind back then. I can sometimes remember the thought-processes from that time in my life. Bear with me while I explain.

I believed that if I couldn't see anyone, they couldn't see me. Therefore, if I hid under the table, the tablecloth would hide me from view and I couldn't be seen by the adults.

With me so far?

And therefore, logic (three-year-old's logic) then says that if no one can see me, then they can't possibly hear me...

Do you see the cunning flaw in my fatal plan?

Sitting under the table, totally invisible and inaudible to everyone in the small room, I recite Grandad's newest poem.

I'm a little boy-scout and I don't swear.
Shit, bugger, arsehole, I don't care!

The memory of my mother yelling my name is clear to me even now.

I was shocked and astonished to hear her - after all, she couldn't hear me...

I sat still for a little while and she peered under the tablecloth.

Yes, I was told-off for that one... but not as much as Grandad got told-off!