2 Mortimer Avenue – Higher Blakely! Man if ghosts exist then you may find a few there, one perhaps being the originator of this rambling text. It was probably the first time I died; thrown on the floor for crying at my chicken pox that were irritated by urine contained in my rubber pants. I used to wet the bed back then with all the abuse I was going through, not so you would notice of course, after all, a maisonette is perhaps the best place for a mother of two boys, back in the sixties, to be. Out of sight and out of mind, as children are said should be. Maybe Mrs Carter who lived underneath felt a little different, witnessing myself trying to run away on my tricycle from time to time. I would get as far as the bottom of the avenue and try and look for somewhere to live on the grassy embankment, near Richard Bennetts house. I always wanted to be friends with Richard Bennett, but I guessed that his mother would not allow the likes of I with my scruffy clothes and rough behaviour to mix with him. Still, those days back then; at least I had some friends, Alan Friend, Andrew Yule, Jason Hull, I still remember them. When my step dad came along with his own two daughters, I tried my damndest to get my head around this new enlarged family. I always wanted a dad! My sixth birthday came, and my dad did his best I suppose, giving away the large pieces of cake to my fellow siblings and reserving the smallest for I. He never seemed to like the fact I could answer back at such an early age? Later on in my adult life I was to realize the game was loaded a long time before any disobedience could be blamed upon me, it aint rocket science to cut all the pieces of cake the same size. Still though, at seven the posing naked for photographs taken by my ma, and the chaperoning of my fellow siblings out of the living room to avert their eyes away from the pornography that was left on the table, didn’t make any real marked effect on me, or so I thought. To be honest I thought I was in hell! When the belt and the ritual parading of us all into the bedroom to be whipped happened, I did notice that God, was a fuckwit! My youngest step-sister was two years of age when she had the buckle placed on her buttocks, two, that is all Mrs Mclure. I cried a thousand tears that day. My ma though, seeing the tears run down my face as I waited in line to have my bare arse whipped, leaned to me and said, “What are you crying for, you’ve not had yours yet.” You know what Mrs Mclure, my ma is as tall as you!

            Mrs Mclure, and there I am smiling at one of life’s little Hitlers, was a teacher at Darnhill Primary School. Well, when I say teacher, she had her favourites of course, but all she taught me was illiteracy, a marked difference from the Education I received at Crosslee primary school. Crosslee saw me rise the Chess ladder and take part in inter school competitions. Crosslee taught me handwriting, maths, reading, the fellow pupils were in the main friendly, and the teachers took their job seriously. There was one teacher though, I could have cried for or rather, I could have cried for myself. You see, during a Chess competition, as young as I was at six years of age playing chess, I did not have the confidence or social skills to be able to put my hand up and say, ‘I need the toilet sir.’ This was because I never had any confidence in talking with those in authority. I guess you know why too. I sat there, trying to evade an attack by two rooks, and pissed my pants where I sat, the puddle on the floor turning my face red. I had no confidence Mrs Mclure, none! By the time I reached Darnhill Primary, skilled in first years of learning, I was presented with a book in my first day of class. I was told it was a diary, and we had to place our thoughts within it. It could be anything she said! I started to write, surrounded by strangers I never knew. When the pupil next to me saw I could double hand write, she shouted it all over the class. The whole classroom left their seats, and crowded over my shoulder while I wrote. I sat there, scared out of my wits. Not knowing any of the pupils I was sitting amongst. I had already had too much abuse as a young child, now I’m placed in a school where on the very first day, I can see resentment building up in my fellow students, resentment that was to be re-iterated by the teacher. Oh how the girls used to love to tease, pulling my hair because it was curly, curly blonde locks that were never cut because my Ma and Pa couldn’t afford. The lads used to pick on me in threes, try and make me fight children from lower years. I didn’t have much chance really did I? Mrs Mclure, what a vicious woman you are! You see, as you used to tip me upside down and pretend to use me as a mop in front of the class, to the delight and woops of fellow pupils, I was frightened that you would see through my holes in my short pants, and notice that I  sometimes didn’t have any underwear on, on account of I didn’t have that many underpants. While she used to hold my legs and scrape my head just inches above the floor in sweeping movements, I would die inside every time. But hey Mrs Mclure, you did your best I suppose in your position of responsibility. Those times I walked home from days of humiliation were grand eh? Dodging the bully on the way home, not wanting to really go home because I couldn’t stand the social abuse, the tension and the poverty! Did you all laugh? I am schizophrenic now, you have what you want whereas I wanted to be a doctor, you did your best, now laugh some fucking more!