Friday, 9 September 2016

Works like a charm

     When did we stop guarding against disaster and start hoping to attract good fortune? Not me, obviously, I live life in a default BRACE! BRACE! position, hoping that whatever comes next won’t leave permanent damage, or at least the kind that can be artfully disguised. I mean ‘we’ in a broader sense, people, them, us, you.

     As the type of person who loves folklore and superstitions and bollocks like that, what has struck me lately is how much of the old lies derived from fear. Fear of demons, witches, ill health, misfortune, all things people felt they needed protecting from. We don’t seem to cling to these superstitions these days in the way I remember from not that long ago, even as recently as when I was a child. Instead we have lucky things. A lucky scarf for football matches in the hope of our team securing a win, we have our lucky jacket for interviews, we may even have our lucky pants if on the pull. All of that is in the hope of attracting good fortune, rather than avoiding bad.

     It’s a reflection of modern life, I suppose. For the most part, illness can be treated, natural disasters can be anticipated and the aftermath dealt with (not always very efficiently, obviously), curious natural phenomena can be explained by the appliance of science. In the main, the world is not something to be feared. And so, in the absence of fear, we allow hope to enter instead. We hope that Norwich won’t crash and burn in the Championship, hope that we will get that job, hope that tonight will be The Night. Even though we consider ourselves to be rational, educated adults, there is still a part of us that clings to hope.

     Why do we do this? Why, when in the cold raking light of day, most would never admit to keeping to our private and personal little four leafed clovers? We know (at least I hope you do) that not doing something, or not wearing something will have absolutely no impact on the eventual outcome of a situation. In the case of lucky pants, I’d say that revealing a saggy, faded pair of Homer Simpson boxers, so ancient they’ve become almost crotchless is likely to significantly decrease your chances of being invited to reveal anything more. But yet, we hold on to these things. We ignore the times our ‘lucky’ charm didn’t work, and only remember the times when it did.

     I could be scathing about this tendency we have. I should be. I should be logical, and rational, and I should point out how flawed our (lack of) thought process is. But I won’t. What I will say is that we cannot scoff and sneer at the beliefs of those who lived in the past, and the actions they took to protect those closest to them, to avoid dangers they didn’t fully understand. We ourselves are just as guilty, keeping things for sentimental reasons that have no root in practicality. I should say that we, all of us, have our own little set of private beliefs and superstitions, some founded in our everyday lives and experiences, some that have arrived on  the slightest of whims, but ones that we observe religiously. I should say that we ought to abandon these silly little charms, these hopes, but I won’t. Because it is those illogical and irrational acts that make us, define us, what makes each of us the individuals we are. It is our beliefs, gathered over time, careworn yet precious, that truly reveal what we hold most dear.

     Not to mention that it would be utterly hypocritical of me to rubbish old folk tales too, because since the morning of 4th November 2015, I have worn around my neck a long thin piece of red ribbon, attached to which is a Spiderman button badge. I haven’t taken it off once. And although many triumphs and disasters have come my way since I first put it on, nothing has been quite as terrible as the events that caused me to first start wearing it. So on that flawed, unsound, sophistic basis, it stays. Because it has kept me and mine safe, as all charms and superstitions should.

Tuesday, 23 August 2016

Tinned ravioli


     Here’s a story that will tell you how much of an over empathic twat I am. When I was about eight or nine, dinner was quite often just me on my own at the kitchen table for one night a week. My siblings were then sidling along the paths of teenagehood, so were probably up to some kind of illicit, forbidden behaviours, and my parents were the weird type of grown ups who work all day and then ‘relax’ by being sporty and athletic. Playing tennis, squash, that kind of odd, slightly worrying behaviour. One night, Mum, in a rush, had grabbed something from the shelf of the local shop to give me dinner, something that could just be heated up on the hob. Not something she’d bought before, but thought it’d be ok. Tinned ravioli.

     I’m not going to lie. I’m not even going to exaggerate, although you’ll think I am. It was disgusting. Flaccid, slimy mush. The type of thing you’d perhaps offer to a six month old as their first Real Meal after a week of baby rice, except that this food tasted preowned and definitely preunloved. The shudder that engulfed me as the pasta pillow dissolved on my tongue without me even having to chew is still ‘yeah, childbirth wasn’t great, but was it as bad as…?’ vivid now. Then the full horror of rehydrated, overhydrated mechanically recovered meat that was probably more eyelash and toenail of ferret than farmyard.

     Swallowing it was like downing a cup of cold sick. Keeping it down marks as perhaps the greatest single triumph of my life. It was eating as suicide because I no longer wanted to live in a world where such a food could exist. The severity of it was such that I put my book down on the table (unheard of behaviour), dropped the fork, and prepared to push the dish away, suppressing the primal urge to hurl it into the back garden and kill it with fire. How could this even happen? How could anyone come up with something so hideous? Had no one thought to taste it before it was unleashed on an unknowing and unsuspecting public? Had no one considered what could happen to a society where such atrocities are committed on a daily basis? How the buggery bastarding hell had this goatfuck of food been conceived, brought into existence, dressed in a pretty picture, and ushered before, holding out its pleated skirt, smiling shyly and waiting for me to express approval? Who was responsible for this and how can I destroy them and all that they hol…

     …d on a second. Someone, somewhere. This is their life. This is their job. In some monstrosity of a factory somewhere, doubtless windowless, airless, noisy and uncomfortable. Day in, day out, making this fetid slop, knowing that a complete stranger will hate them to their grave for what they’ve done. How terrible to have that on your conscience. How awful.  That poor bastard. Tears filled my eyes. A new realisation pricked my tear ducts harder. One day, they’re going to run out of victims. One day, everyone will know what they’ve done, no one will buy tinned ravioli, the factory will go out of business, they’ll lose their job, their innocent children will suffer, they’ll end up homeless, they’ll actually die of death. Because no one will buy tinned ravioli.

     This put a new light on my situation. Now I had to shoulder some responsibility. As vomit-inducing as I found it, I could not accept the blame for my rejected tinned ravioli tearing a family apart. I had to help, I had no choice, it was my duty.

     ‘How’s the ravioli?’ Mum asked as she swished past, resplendent in polo shirt and tennis skirt.

     ‘MMMMPPPFFF!’ Double thumbs up, mouth full, eyes rolled heavenwards to indicate the ecstatic state I was in with this delicious tinned pasta.

     ‘Good! I thought I’d give it a go, something different for a change. As it’s a hit, I’ll get it again.’

     ‘!!’ My enthusiastic whimper may have sounded like an involuntary spasm of primal fear and distress, but I can assure you it was just the dying whelp of my tinned ravioli foodgasm. Honest.

     And that is why for about six months I went without dinner every Tuesday evening. I had to time my run carefully, and make sure I had stuff to put over it once I’d silently scraped it into the bin (plastic spoons are your friend in this situation). Even the dog wouldn’t eat it, and there were times when he ate, variously, a whole packet of butter, a catering tin of chicken fat, two frozen rolls, and most memorably to my eight year old self, another dogs poo. So convinced was I that only I could secure the future of the tinned ravioli factory, I gamely pretended, every week, that this meal was the greatest treat of all.

     What a bloody twat. What an overly empathetic twat, and from such a young age. I want elderly, grey-haired, saggy titted me as I am now to go back and shake Young Me by the throat and bellow ‘STOP THIS MADNESS. You are not responsible for the livelihoods of people working in a fecking tinned ravioli factory. You hate this manure masquerading as food, and your sole weekly tin will not have any impact on sales. CEASE.’

     Christ, ah, I wish I could. I wish I had. Because being empathetic to the degree that I am is a right pain in the arse. For one thing, I cry all the time, about everything, always, especially when it has nothing to do with me. I cry at game shows. I cry when I see people shouting at their children (although I still retain the ability to get shitty with The Blondies). I cry at sports things sportingly sporting (one reason we don’t have a telly is that I can barely cope with the radio commentary. Seeing athlete’s faces would completely finish me off). I cry at architectural graffiti inscriptions. I even – here’s a bucket to laughvomit into – cry when I see things like unused playgrounds. ‘Where are the children?’ I sob. ‘Mr Happy Tree just wants the children to play-ha-hay wiiiiiith hiiiim…’

     Yeah, piss yourselves; I know I’m a twat. Twatty Mactwatface. Thing is, as embarrassing as I am to be around, and as fucking annoying as I can be, I am aware of other people in ways that perhaps most are not. And life gets complicated when you’re like that. You are attuned to picking up every possibility that someone may be feeling. And it’s far, far too easy to forget that other people don’t see the world like that, that I’m the odd one, that I’m not touchy feely by any stretch so keep your fucking hands where I can see them, but I’m used to thinking about people with consideration. And when I feel I don’t get that in return, it stings like a bitch. I deal better with reassurance than rejection. Sometimes perspective is better than the moral high ground. And absolutely fucking anything is better than tinned ravioli.

Tuesday, 2 August 2016

The truth about love Part II

     I wrote that nearly 18 months ago. 'The truth about love'. Seems a bit glib now. It was true, still is, in some ways. There are no lies in it. But the truth as it is now, is that it was based upon a false premise. I was not loved then, and I am certainly not loved now. This is a hard truth. I could soften it with mentions of The Blondies, my parents, friends who care, readers, etc., all of whom play their part in understanding and encouraging me. I cannot lie and pretend that this does not make my life richer and more enjoyable. But the truth remains: I was not loved.

     I may have been told it twenty times a day 'loving you'. I may have received a text every few hours 'loving you'.I may have been assured of it in the way his world was nothing more than work and home, no friends, no outside interests, no distractions or complications. But I was not loved.

     Cared about? Then, yes. My welfare was important. Consideration was given. Things that I did not request or require were done 'for me'. He would 'let' me do certain things I wanted to do, as long as I knew there would be a price to pay, a reckoning, in my own fashion. He was a good father to The Blondies on holidays, their interests and wants coinciding, allowing me the time and space I jealously, selfishly need in order to write. I cannot say he was wholly unsupportive in every way, because it would be unfair and untrue. But I was not loved.

     Love shows itself in unexpected and unthought of ways. The ways in which I listed what love truly is are still true, still what I believe, still what I will shout from the rooftops (or just hammer out onto a laptop in Spain whilst The Blondies are out with Mum for half an hour). And for that reason, I know I was not loved.

     Because with love comes care, consideration, compassion. Love cannot be love when it involves telling the world the other persons darkest secrets. Love was not love when after it is over, you repeatedly fail to do the right thing. Love was not love when you ignore the implications of your past behaviour. Love was not love when within weeks of the end of the relationship you move onto someone new, as you said you would.

     Love was not love, for either of us. I did not love him either, by the end. I don't know when it stopped. Most likely, it ebbed away, a slow but pervasive drought of the delta of a love I once thought defined my life, the little channels of the same love that once spread so broadly, gradually being extinguished as each stream became a trickle before dying, unnoticed until it was too late. I too have my share of blame, and have apologised, felt remorse, tried to make amends. I have received nothing in return, only a freezing out by many, and certainly no apology from anyone. And that it how I know I was not loved.

     I know I was not loved because I still care, yet receive no consideration. I was not loved, because I try to help, yet receive no assistance. I know I was not loved, because I cannot see myself ever allowing anyone close to me. And yet, I was replaced, overnight, without a backward glance, discarded. I am happy that he is happy, and that is what I wish for him. But lately I have realised that I was not loved, and I mourn the loss of my innocent belief that I was.

    Love and I have many things in common, it would seem. Recherch√©, elusive, unfathomable. Annoying, difficult, impertinent. But love and I are strangers, it seems to me now. Because I am not, never was, and probably never will be, loved.

Tuesday, 19 July 2016

Historical Romance

     Hnnnyeah, it’s not for me. If I want history, I’ll read a book by a historian. If I want romance… be grateful you can’t see my face right now, because romance can fucking fuck off and do one as far as I’m concerned. I am not at home to Mr Hopeless Romantic (that said, if anyone fancies wining and dining, I’m more than happy to watch you eat whilst I sink a bottle of Chenin Blanc). So no. No historical romance here, thank you.

     And no historical romance when it comes to the past either. I’m bored with it. More than bored, actually. I’m tossily fecking pissed off with it. There seems to be a strand of people who can’t accept that A Small Thing is just A Small Thing. I’m talking mostly about graffiti, of course, because that’s what I do, but you can apply it to pretty much any Old Thing that people talk about. An old building can’t just be an old building, no; it has to have a bedroom that Elizabeth I reputedly slept in. An old book can’t just be an old book; it has to have reportedly once belonged to Shakespeare. Strange markings on church walls weren’t caused by a dangling light pull installed in 1973, but instead hint at some mysterious occult practises that may relate to tales of witchcraft in the village during the 16th century.

     People often preface these evidenceless suppositions with ‘it is tempting to imagine…’ or ‘it is entirely possible that…’ or to put it another way ‘I don’t like not knowing everything, so I’m going to make up some complete bollocks, based on nothing other than a) my own inability to accept we’ll probably never know the truth and b) that I insist on everything being significant and important because I’m scared that I am myself insignificant and unimportant’. Which would be a bit of a long-winded way to start a sentence to be fair. I privately refer to these people as ‘Pritchards’, thanks to a certain book [dark mutterings]

     I can understand why. People like certainty, facts, neat little endings, and links to Big And Important Events. When they encounter a piece of history that on the face of it isn’t clear cut or glamorous (in their opinion), they feel a little disappointed and their mind issues an ‘…oh’. The temptation to therefore make something seem more than it is appears to be fairly universal. And nowhere is this more true than with graffiti. I’m going to contradict myself slightly here by saying that all graffiti has meaning. All of it, from the humblest spraypainted tag to the most beautiful and impressive 14th Century SHIP GRAFFITI!!! If it didn’t have any meaning, it wouldn’t exist. If someone creates something by a deliberate action, it intrinsically has meaning, even if that meaning is only known by the hand that created it and the reasons behind it leave every other soul on the planet baffled. So even just a pair of initials on a school playground wall has/had meaning. Where the problems seem to arise is in determining what the meaning is.

     Let’s take those initials, shall we? We can guess at the age of them by how weathered and smooth the stone around them has become. We can guess at the age of the person who carved them by how high they are, and the fact that they’re in a school playground. We can observe that they are surrounded on every side by similar initials, and nod sagely that yes, graffiti attracts graffiti. Meaning? That’s a bit trickier. It’s just a very human thing to do. To say, in the phrase I try to avoid but never bloody do, ‘I was here’. There are other things we could add, about how people copy others, how it’s ‘just what you do’, we could speculate that the child who created it may perhaps have been experiencing upheaval in their life and wanted to make some part of themselves more permanent. But ultimately, it is just a pair of initials on a wall. Does that make it any less interesting? Any less meaningful? For me, no. For others, yes. For others still, it’s clearly the sign of some cult that brainwashed children in the 1970s and forced them to create physical damage to buildings associated with authority in an attempt to bring down society to achieve anarchy in the UK.

     I wish I was making that sort of bollocks up (I did, to be honest), but it’s actually just an extension of so many comments and wild speculating that I read again and again when it comes to graffiti. A cross found in a church porch can’t be a straightforward as a record of a transaction or agreement. It has to be related to pilgrims, even when there’s no record of pilgrims ever visiting, or even a nearby shrine. A tally chart can’t just be a basic tally chart of someone who needed a handy surface to keep a record on at some point prior to 1500. No, it has to be the record of deaths from the plague during an outbreak in the village in 1426. A drawing of someone in a hood is actually a satirical representation of the Archbishop of Canterbury, based upon one piece of marginalia written by someone hundreds of miles away at the time, and whose handwriting is dodgy enough that it’s possible to read key words in four different ways. Or, it’s just someone in a hood. A woman carved into the walls of Norwich Castle isn’t just another carving of a person, she’s there for good fortune, significance, importance, wild speculation, theories that make no sense and are based upon no actual evidence other than the person who’s talking about her determined to prove that actually it means more than that because ‘I’m clever too, you know!’

     Think I’m exaggerating? Here’s one I actually didn’t make up. 

Look! A graffito of a… hat. 

Here is another… hat. Clearly, they must be linked. Except that one is in a church in Essex, and the other is in Bethlehem. But, ‘it is impossible to ignore the resemblance’, apparently. And to give you some idea of the logic at work there, the first theory considered is that it might relate to the Knights Templar. This happens quite a lot. Anything unusual or not immediately explicable is very, very, very often assigned to Templars and some kind of mysterious plot hidden from us that continues to this very day. They are the generic fruit based listening device of graffiti theories by the bored and ill informed, and they are also very tedious. The same author also decides it’s ‘possible’ that daisywheels represent badges of a religious or knightly Order, and I’d better shut up now before I really go off on one (but before I do, I’m just going to add that the text next to the first 'hat' reads ‘god help me’ which I’d say is rather more interesting than FIVE PAGES of discussion of a hat which is actually a knight’s helmet with a plume and not a hat at all).

     Graffiti does have meaning beyond what is on the surface. It’s never superficial. I can bore on for days about it (and as we know, frequently do), but endlessly talking about it has to be grounded in what we actually see, not what we think we know, or what we want to impress others with. Graffiti always has meaning, is always important, simply by its existence. But what it isn’t is a peg on which to hang your need to show off how much you know, nor is it always going to mean more than anything mundane and simple. Some inscriptions do. Some inscriptions require knowledge, experience, research and a twatty blogger getting annoyed and saying ‘bollocks is it fuck’. Some inscriptions we will never be able to understand wholly, and that’s fine. No one is ever going to know everything. But sometimes, it is as simple as a child carefully scratching their initials onto a wall in a playground. No more, no less. And it’s important – just as important as the inscription itself – to not overcomplicate our interpretation of it by automatically assuming it means anything beyond the fact that it was created in the first place.

Thursday, 7 July 2016



 Look at that. It’s not much, is it? But whilst it certainly hasn’t changed my life, unlike another little graffito not so far away, it perhaps explains why graffiti exerts such a hold on me. I don’t get out graffiti hunting much, but I do see a lot of it and of what I see, it is the simplest finds that seem to stay with me.

     Daisywheels. If I was trying to impress you with just how intelligent I am, I’d call them hexfoils, or compass drawn designs, and wank on about principles of Euclidean geometry, but I’m not and it’d just be embarrassing for all concerned, so I’ll stick to calling them daisywheels (also because it pains some people to see them called daisywheels, and I am cruel). The idea behind them is relatively simple. Demons are all around us, stalking the earth, bringing pain, suffering and death with them. Evil bastards, basically. But also stupid bastards who are highly curious (yes, got there before you). If they come across a line, they are compelled to follow it until it reaches an end. If, however, the line is endless, then the demon must forever retrace their steps and is effectively trapped within it forever. A simple idea, a simple design, a simple solution.

     Daisywheels are one of the most common medieval graffiti finds; most people who go hunting in even the most halfarsed way will probably have found one. They don’t rank up there with the ‘WOW’ factor when you pit them against the more unusual and intricate inscriptions. People don’t ooh and aah and talk about how stunning they are, or devote time to talking about them even, because they are simple, they’re common, and to most people, they are dull.

     But because I am a softhearted contrary twat, I adore them. Especially the simplest, most basic design, the Tesco Value of apotropaic marks. The beauty of them is that they are balanced, whole, complete, and the intention behind them is pure. To protect loved ones from harm. To turn aside evil. They are a testament to the two emotions most likely to cause us to act – love of someone, and the fear that harm may befall them. The fact that daisywheels are so widespread and easily found bears eloquent silent witness that so many people felt the way we do now about those who are special to us. It’s not a great big shout of ‘look at me, look what I’ve made, aren’t I great?’, but instead a gentle little whisper of hope and love. Something about that bypasses my (admittedly limited) rationality and brings tears to my eyes.

     I’m such a twat about them that I even get a bit upset when I see daisywheels that have gone a bit… wrong. I imagine the horror that the creator would have felt at seeing something that had the best intentions do exactly the opposite and the guilt they may have felt if Bad Things happened, thinking that perhaps they had caused it by not being as careful as they might have been. Or the pointed finger of judginess from others that It Was All Their Fault And They Know It. Stupid, I know. I never claimed to be logical.

     If I’m honest, though, I just feel protective about daisywheels. That people ignore them, and instead go after the big showy treasures, the impressive stuff that’s guaranteed to gain attention. ‘Just some daisywheels…’ is the disgruntled mutter of a thwarted graffiti hunter, unimpressed by the thought of a love and intention that was etched into stone centuries earlier. An intention that was shared by so many people, in so many churches, a widespread belief and devotion that we see time and time again. People overlook them in favour of the three ring circus things, in favour of the stuff that was made with the intention of gaining attention, quite often the graffiti that weren’t made with any real meaning or significance behind them beyond showing off. That leaves me cold. I’m aware that this means I’m not a true graffiti person, that I’m out of step with pretty much everyone else on this because I’d rather think about wallflowers than find a unique graffito of national significance. But wallflowers tell me more about people than almost anything else. They’re nothing special. But then most people aren’t either… except that we all are. And wallflowers remind me of that. 

Wednesday, 29 June 2016

Passing notes

     Quite a few months ago now, in what seems like a hideously distorted dreamscape of events I’m no longer certain took place; I had a Very Bad Day. One of my worst days, in fact. As bad a day as is possible, to the point that it nearly was my last day. It took someone I’ve never met to make sure that there weren’t local news reports starting with the words ‘A body has been found…’ Yeah. That kind of bad. But, as I say, a very wise man was very wise and very kind (‘and that’s how I got picked up by the Police from Beeston Priory at one in the morning’ is usually how this story ends). So, with no trace of hyperbole, I owe my life to the kindness of that person. He knows who he is. And I hope he knows how his consideration that night kept me going in the very tough weeks that followed.

     There was another stranger that day too. Although I was trying to be discreet during my phone calls with Kind Man (or at least I think I was, my memory is distinctly hazy) someone on the bus to Sheringham (yes, the arse-aching glamour of my life) heard me sobbing and trying to explain why the horror of everything had overwhelmed me and my mind had splintered. And they obviously realised that they couldn’t do much to help, but as their bus stop approached, they got up, took a few steps back to where I sat and handed me a scrap of paper.

     I’ve kept it. Of course I have. I put it in the notebook I had with me, and I’ve kept it there ever since. I carried that notebook with me for months, everywhere I went, although I haven’t written in it since that day because I don’t want to be reminded of the words that were spilt into it. But I did read that note a lot.

     I didn’t take in anything about the person who gave it to me. Male/female, old/young, alone/part of a group. All I remember is a disembodied hand passing it to me. And me snotting everywhere because I was at the point of knowing that these were my last few hours on earth, and there would be no more days, let alone better ones.

     I hadn’t planned to tell anyone about that stranger. It was just going to be a moment between us. But I sort of feel like I have to now. Because the world right now seems a bleak, empty, hopeless place. For family, for friends, for strangers. And I feel utterly powerless to do anything about it. Helpless. But I’m not, not completely. None of us are. We might not be able to change much in a wider, more meaningful sense, we can't change what has happened, nor what will come, but we can each do small things. Smiling at strangers, kind gestures, challenging people when they are casually racist or discriminatory. Stepping in when abuse is happening in front of us. We can even pass a note to someone we know is in distress. We don’t have much else, and even those small things can’t change the terrifying and uncertain present we’re living through, still less whatever it is the future holds for us. But if you see someone who needs helps, offer it. Posturing and pontificating on social media is all very well, but it doesn’t do very much to reassure people that they are welcome, they are cared about, that they matter not because of who they are, but simply because they are. Because they are, and we value that. Because they are, and we want them to be. Ignoring things only makes people feel even more isolated, before we can start to think of a way forward together. And come what may, we need to be together.

     This isn't my usual stance. Normally I'd be shouting and RANTSWEARING and telling everyone just how soul-twistingly angry I am. I have been, doubtless will be again. But tonight I am just sad. Tonight I am alone. Tonight I am despairing that everything I see seems to be a relentless and unforgiving stretch of misery, bad news, and unkindness. 

     So be kind. Be brave. Be thoughtful. And not just to people you know, but to anyone who needs it. It will be appreciated; I can assure you of that. And to you, whoever you were, on that bus … I wish I could tell you what that small gesture meant, and how I clung to it. Because if a stranger cared enough about me to do that, then I allowed myself to dare to believe that perhaps I was worth saving after all, despite everything. 

Saturday, 11 June 2016

Memo to Turner

     I get it. He’s your friend, your son, your brother. He’s been accused of doing something terrible. You don’t believe it. You can’t believe it. You won’t believe it. That sweet boy with the blue eyes and blond hair. The boy you knew, no, the boy you know, he wouldn’t do that. You know he wouldn’t. You know him. He wouldn’t.

     There must be some kind of misunderstanding. It couldn’t have happened the way they say. He says it didn’t happen like that. He says he didn’t do it. He says he was there, but it wasn’t like that, despite the evidence. He denies it. You believe him. You accept his version. You don’t question the parts that don’t make sense, the facts that exist. Blindly, you believe what you see, that boy you say you know. You close ranks.

     You close ranks, and you absolve him of any wrongdoing, any responsibility, any guilt. You don’t make him look at himself and what he did. Easier to blame someone else, everyone else, but not the boy you know. You weren’t there, but you believe you know what happened.

     Do you think you helped him? Do you think that your refusal to accept there might be some truth in what other people said was wise? Do you think that maybe if you’d considered that he wasn’t the innocent, ill-treated victim, he might have thought about what he’d done? Have you thought that people don’t often want to let their masks slip, that they lie about what they’ve done? Or are you always going to stick to your belief in the boy you know? Never doubt him, never question him, always defend him.

     Never allow him to consider that what he did was wrong. What he did, no one else. No one else did it. It wasn’t a big boy who ran away. It wasn’t a series of events that went wrong. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was what he did. But no, in your world, your family are entitled to behave as they wish, and if anything goes wrong, you’ll bleat that it wasn’t your fault. Nothing to do with you as parents, nothing to do with you as people, nothing to do with the boy you know.

     It is, though. And all you are doing through your misplaced sense of loyalty to your son is reinforcing that he is always going to be that golden haired, blue eyed boy who is never in the wrong. And because he’s never in the wrong, he’ll never have to apologise, never express regret or remorse. He won’t even be able to do the right thing, even now. Will you ever accept being in the wrong yourselves? Because if you don’t, he can’t. And if he can’t grow up and accept the blame, he’s always going to be that stunted little child who lies his way out of trouble every time. That selfish and entitled man who puts his needs and wants before anyone else. He will stay that boy, I promise you. That boy you know. Except that you don’t know him at all.