My stomach is doing flips sideways, then forwards. I'm on a rollercoaster just walking along the street. Excited. Scared. Nervous. Excited. Scared. Excited.

It's 1981. I'm fourteen years old, in my school uniform and on my way home. Well kinda. I am supposed to be on my way home but this is the third time I have walked around this block.

I am walking normally (aren't I?) every now and again pretending to look in the shops....

I feel like everyone on the street knows.

'I wonder where it is.' I know where it is, it's right there....

'Isn't that interesting..... how much is that I wonder.....' It's there.

I can see it out of the corner of my eye. There.

Theres an A-frame sign on the footpath outside. There.

Theres a sign above the open door. Right there.

The sign is tiny. It say's 'OUT'. That's all nothing more, just 'OUT.' But this simple word excites and terrifies me all at the same time.
That's all the tiny advertisement in the Sunday Paper, 'The Truth' really said apart from the tiny address and the vaguely worded byline that said something about... 'GAY'.

I looked in vaguely the last time I walked past. As if I wasn't really looking.
Stairs beyond leading...where?

A couple of metres past the doorway I want I stop, my excitement almost overwhelming me, I'm looking around as if I am lost and looking for a non-descript opening.

Just do it. Ok, nothing unnatural to see here. Everything's normal. I am walking normally (aren't I). I am normal.

Aren't I?

I am trying to look nonchalant. Off to see my friend. Going to see the doctor. I walk back and pretend I am looking for the right number. Where is it?
Ahh. Is this it...?!!!

Everybody's looking.

I flub the approach. As I am almost at the door I suconsciously speed up and throw myself through the open door. Damn. I wonder who saw me. My god what would they be thinking. Fucking Queer. Faggot. Poofter.

Everybody knows.

Too late now.

I'm in. I swallow the knot that's been in the back of my throat. Nothing dramatic awaits. A small monochromatic vestibule with stairs leading up to a hall. I climb the stairs and my heart jumps into my throat when the second to last creeks. I almost leap up onto the landing. Shit, who heard me. No one.

At the end of the hall an open door. The small sign above the door says 'Out'.

I creep along the hall as if I'm scared of waking someone. Scared of going 'in' to the 'Out' door. I linger trying to hear something to fear. Nothing? No, radio. AM Radio, slightly off the station. Here goes.

I walk through the door. No one.

A counter to the right sits looking abandoned. There is a Till to one side of its glass top. Under the glass there are big silver rings, black rings that look like plumbing supplies and a couple of tubular plastic things that look like Lifesaver containers but thicker and a rubber....Oh my god! It's a rubber penis! My face flushes as I choke, giggle, hyperventilate, giggle to myself.

I bend forward to look closer. A toilet flushes. I spin around and as nonchalantly as possible look at the books on the shelves and the piles of magazines. A door in the hall opens and a guy in glasses who looks in his thirties comes in wiping his hands with a paper towel.

I am trying to find something that hasn't got a naked man on it, so the guy won't think...Won't think what?

I'm GAY!

"Hello, sorry did you need anything?" He smiles at me. I gurgle back, "Agghhunnojuslooking, thanks." I blush. He smirks knowingly. Shit. He knows.

I'm GAY!

I calm down looking through the magazines, back issues of 'OUT!' magazine. Oh my god! Naked men! Lots of them. Oh my god! Look at that guys doodle, it's enormous. Oh man this guy is so beautiful. The cover model smiles back at me, his perfectly centre parted and feathered golden hair framing a boyish but manly face. Blue, blue eyes and white, white teeth, like 'Christopher Atkins' in the 'Blue Lagoon'. This guy has a hard on though. It sits in all its glory astride two pages in the middle of the magazine.

I quickly put it down when the guy at the counter looks over. The guy who came out of the toilet is sitting at the counter doing what looks like homework. He looks up at my progress every now and then.

I am mesmerised by the display. I look through about half even though I want to look at them all.

"The back issues are all half price." The guy behind the counter says as he looks up at me again. I find my favourite. I have to stop looking at it because I am getting a hard-on. I grab the magazine I want with one hand while the other sits in my shorts pocket providing cover.

As I am about to leave another guy comes out of the door behind and to the right of the counter. "Lovey have you finished the banking?" Lovey has. He gives what looked like homework to the other guy. As I get to the counter, the second guy just stops and stares at me as Lovey asks me, "Just that one?"

"Ahhh-no-this-one-too-thanks."

"Both? Ok that's $9.80."

"Agghyess-ok-thanks." I gurgle. I look furtively at both of them. Lovey takes my money and gives me my change. The other guy just stares at me like I am dinner, then offers, "That's a great issue. Isn't Scott on the cover gawgeous, couldn't you just eat him up."

My brain says, 'Yeah, uh huh,' but my mouth doesn't actually says anything. I'm nodding... I think.

I walk out of the store as I hear Lovey and his friend... giggling? I can't really tell. I don't really care. I'm euphoric. I'm overwhelmed and excited.

I can't wait to get home. I gently place the magazines between my textbooks in my bag and zip it up as I slowly descend the stairs. Once I have composed myself at the third step down, I walk nonchalantly as I can muster again down the stairs... but I am still too excited. My exit is as flubbed and as rushed as my entrance.

I almost explode out of the door, my subconscious frightened pushes my body as quickly out the door as it can muster. Two steps away from the door and I am back to walking normally...except I am still blushing like a beetroot.

Nobody knows. I think they do.

Three shops away and I am back to exhiliration. I can't wait to get home. To read my new magazines... to stare at Scott on the cover... and to drool and to fantasize and to... do other things...

When I get home I soak up every article and every picture but always come back to 'Scott' and his blue, blue eyes and his white, white teeth and his perfect body and that look that says he's mine and just waiting for me to hurry up and 'get there'.

The magazines confirm what I have subconsciously and consciously known but never wanted to admit.

The meanies were right.

I'm GAY. I'm one of them.

It was true. I AM a poof.

I am a 'queer cunt' like the bully at school said.

It's true. I prefer blokes... like Scott.

Nicolette.

I love my sister. She is very glamourous. She takes me to have my haircut at a Saloon. She is famous. She's been in the paper. She was on Page Three in a sexy pose with one leg up like she was waiting for a bus. She was in a bathing suit and black platform high heels. She looked really pretty. She has beautiful eyes. Everyone says she has beautiful eyes.
She is VERY glamourous.
She is a singer. She sings at 'Your father's Moustache' which is a very glamourous nightclub in Auckland. She wears Fox Furs and fur coats. She is dating a french man. She is so glamourous, she's like beyond 'Glamour', she's like 'GLA!'

She was taught singing by Dame Sister Mary Leo who taught OUR Kiri to sing opera.
She has an exquisite voice.
"She's going to be the next Kiri Te Kanawa," said Dame Sister Mary Leo to my Mum but.
She wants 'to sing Ca-ba-ret!'.
"Puhhhh!"
Mum loves telling that story... "Kiri Te Kanawa, Dame Sister Mary Leo, Cabaret!, puhhhh!"

Sing.
"Sing, sing a song. Sing out loud. Sing out strong. Sing of good things, not bad. Sing of happy, not sad. Sing, sing a song. Make it simple to last your whole life long. Don't worry that its not good enough for any one else to hear. Jus...."
"There she is," my Mum's yelling at the TV.
My very glamourous sister in all her radiant glory has just sung the last line. She oozes glamour and faux camaraderie with one of the hosts. It's a pretty hokey show, but we love it. We watch it every week.
This is the first time she's been on 'Sing'. 'Sing' has about six regular singers. Ray and Val are the only ones I remember. Val is on Play School too. She's my favourite. She has the smoothest, loveliest voice, like a Cadbury Caramello chocolate bar.
"Was that it?" Everyone watching has just asked almost at the same time.
The camera pans back and all of tonight's singers are lined up in little groups of two and three.
"There she is!" Everyone in the room has just erupted again at the view of my sister standing on one side of a regular male singer. He stands there, smiling like the 'cock of the walk', my sister's arm around him on one side, and another lady's arm around the other.
My sister's not quite as famous yet, as the others, but she's getting some good press. And she has an agent. And she's performed in nightclubs in Auckland and Rotorua. And all over the place. And my Mum has all her clippings from the newspapers. She keeps them in a scrapbook in her room. Theres a lot.
We have to wait through a couple of other people to sing before she sings a whole song. She's great but the faux camaraderie makes me want to gag. It's slick, and rehearsed, it's fake and makes me want to puke. It's all oozy, syruppy gagness.
She's much better in real life.

She dresses me up one night when I am about seven or eight and she is baby-sitting. She takes me over to her friends house. He's a Drag Queen.
They put me in a frock, a wig and lippy. I have a feather boa around my neck and we go to town.
I sit in the car with sunglasses on and I think I am just Christmas.
I am beautiful.
I am a beautiful lady.
(I must have looked like ET all dressed up and sitting in the back of that car, or a smurf)
I am a beautiful lady Smurf.

She told my father I was going to be gay when I was about three or four. She used to smoke cigars with him because he was her step-dad. She knew heaps of gay guys.
My favourite was a guy she came over with, when she was staying with us. He waited while she got changed to go out.
He was gorgeous, with dark hair and a moustache.
He played 'Heads or Tails' with me and kept losing money to me. I ended up with all his coins.
I said, "He's nice. He should be your boyfriend."
My sister just laughed and said, "He's more likely to be your boyfriend."
I couldn't understand what she meant.
I thought she was just being weird.
I wished he was my boyfriend.
He was gorgeous.
And lovely.
And he treated me like a normal child.
Lovely.

I don't know who they are talking about. Am I at the right funeral? There's a box up the front and a couple of people I know in the crowd but who the hell are they talking about?
A great friend! Always there when you needed a shoulder to cry on! Generous beyond his means! Reliable and trustworthy!
Now I know I'm at the wrong bloody funeral!
He was a good bloke that had a great sense of humour! Always a joke to tell! The sort of man who was respected by his peers and someone you could depend on!
I can't breathe. I feel like the room is closing in.
Would his son like to say a few words? Who me? Am I this person's son? I don't know who the hell you people are talking about. I feel like an illegal alien that stowed away on some ship and I've been discovered.
My Mother is gently squeezing my knee and nodding her head in the direction of the pulpit thing beyond the coffin. I can't breathe. Its hot. And fucken uncomfortable.
They're all looking at me hopefully. Hopeful that I will get up and say, "He was a good father. He looked after me. He was my best mate." He wasn't.
He was a neglectful, deadbeat dad! A fucken alcoholic! A philandering whore of a man who thought more about his penis than his own child!!

Theres part of me that wants to get up and say a few words. An angry, bitter child in pain screams for recognition.
'Let me say a few fucken words! Let me tell you what sort of a shithead lies in this fucken coffin! Please! You just move this body up to the pulpit and I will take care of the rest!'
I can't move. Won't let the child have its say. Its too angry. Even I'm scared of it. They'll put me away if I say what I want to.

My more demure self is trying to get some control. It's respectful of the circumstances.
'I would love to say a few words about your dear departed friend but I don't have any idea of who the man you're talking about, is.'
'All I can say is if this is the man who filled the space intended for my father then, to me, he was like a ghost. A phantom. He had no interest in me. I eventually had no interest in him. I was completely neglected by him. He didn't pay his child support for me, that at the time, was the princely sum of five dollars a week. Was never reliable. I couldn't trust his word because he never fulfilled his promises to me or my mother.'
'He was a two timing, lying, unfaithful husband and a lousy father. That's who your mate was!' God, even my demure self is pissed off.
'He used to leave me outside the pub while all of you were inside having a great time. Sometimes without any money for food. One time for four and a half hours. Then he would drive home drunk with me in the car. If he had taken the time to think of me, he would dump me at the other end of the island while he drank or had sex with one of any number of women he was fucking on the island.'
That's who your mate was.
He was embarrassed he had a girlie little boy as a son. Amazingly, I would have been less girlie if he had actually spent some time with me. My Stepfather taught me that. He was my DAD. Not this lump in the coffin.
As soon as I actually had a male role model, my campness waned. I was still camp but I became more comfortable about being a boy. I went from thinking I needed to become a woman to thinking I just needed others like myself.
I never got to tell him I was gay, the man in the coffin. Really, it was always bloody obvious that I was a complete and utter poof. There was no need to confirm the inevitable. By the time I had worked it out for myself, I wasn't speaking to him.

"I can't, I'm too emotional," I lie. They're all nodding in agreement.
"Ok," my Mother whispers as she squeezes my knee again; with more delicacy this time.
I can't wait for this ordeal to be over. I overhear one of his friends, a woman who had spoken so kindly about him, say to her friend, "His son is such a beautiful young man." She has tears in her eyes and in her voice.
All I can think are mean thoughts. 'Did he root you too?', 'Alcoholic Bitch!'
My wounds are deep and sore and gangrenous. They hurt in an old, aching, almost numbingly painful way.
My heart, left in the cold, numb for so long had seemed to my mind like it was healed. Over it. Moved on. But no. The ice it's incased in, is made up of tears cried for over fifteen years and pain built up like plaque so thick, it's concrete.
Nothing funny in this tragedy, just a wasted opportunity.
'So, he was a good man was he? What makes a good man? I never knew the good man that these people have come to mourn.'


"Your dad was a bloody idiot!" My Mother has just pronounced this out of the blue.
We are walking to the Ferry Wharf on Waiheke Island. I am about to return to my life in Australia after three months of looking after my parents; specifically my mother. She has Alzheimer's disease.
Getting her this far has been incredibly stressful. Only two hours before, we were screaming at each other, uncontrollably, at the top of our lungs; and we're a loud family.
Her, in stubbornly unaware self righteousness; me, with all my maternal issues having come vomiting out of my soul. I thought we had sorted those out but I am obviously still angry.
Angry at her, for her legal and financial mismanagement that has left my siblings and I in the mess that we are in. Angry at life for making me have to look after her when I can barely look after myself. Angry at myself for getting angry at her when I know perfectly well, its the disease that's talking. Angry at god for taking the Mother I love away in the sickest way possible, after all the work we had done to build a great relationship. Angry at the loss of one of my best friends, who some days can't even remember my name.
The argument has long since been forgotten by her; the disease's one redeeming point. I'm still embarrassed by it so am trying to forget it. A couple of my aunts were witness to our stupid, irrational ranting. Really painfully embarrassing, and I still feel ghastly.
My mother in the midst of it asking me in a most un-Alzheimer's kind of way, "So its alright to speak to me in such a disrespectful way, in front of my sister and my friend? Did I bring up my children to disrespect and embarrass me?" I cried as I whimpered, "No" and, "I'm sorry" and we both burst into tears and hugged each other tight like we were both holding our breath, and it was over.

We made up and sent my aunts off on an earlier boat. We have had a lovely lunch, cappucino's and cakes in her favourite cafe on the island. We are now walking along the footpath, every now and then, holding hands. She's like a three year old, every now and then getting distracted by things along the way. The bird. The tree. The glamourous house on the hill.
"Why do you think Bob was a bloody idiot, Mum?" Her pronouncement has come as a surprise because in the past she's been very diplomatic about him and his faults. Her diplomacy used to annoy me because it was like she was on his side. That whatever he did could be excused by his dreadful upbringing. "He loves you in his own way, you know. His mother put him in a home when he was four. He was a good man, a good father that lost his way." Blah, blah, blah, Bah!

"What?"
"Why do you think Bob was a bloody idiot, Mum?"
"Oh... Because he missed out on knowing you! Bloody fool! Didn't know what he had right in front of him. He's a bloody idiot to miss out on getting to know you!"
My tears are welling up. I feel embarrassed and touched and sad and joyous. My Mum was never really one to show her pride.
"But what about our fight before? That wasn't so wonderful was it?"
"That doesn't matter, you're a wonderful son for looking after Jim and I. I'm very proud of you, you know. I'm going to miss you son."
I'm in tears as I hug her to my side; she's completely distracted by something else again. I think she's gone but her hand squeezes mine lovingly.
Then her eyes are on the glamourous house again, like she's three, "Gosh, isn't that lovely! Wouldn't mind living up there, ay, son?"
"Yeah, one day, ay, Mum."
"Yeah, one day."

Childhood. Sport.

In winter my Mummy plays basketball and netball and volleyball. In summer she plays softball and sometimes outdoor basketball but mostly softball. She plays with my Aunty Phyllis. Aunty Phyllis is my godmother. Mummy keeps saying "Phyllis when are you getting married?" And Aunty Phyllis laughs and says when she meets the right man.
I love Aunty Phyllis. She tickles my back. She said I'm like a rug because I lie across her lap when she does it. She's got long nails and she tickles my back by doing swirls with her nails. I love it until all the blood rushes to my head and I feel all stuffed up like my eyeballs are going to pop out and I have to go to bed.
I have a lot of Aunties who play softball with Mummy. There's Aunty Gladys, Aunty Margaret, Aunty Anna, Aunty Mary, Aunty Susan, Aunty Ngaire, Aunty Jean, Aunty Jenny, Aunty Michelle, Aunty Fanny, Aunty Rosemary and Aunty Dutch.
Aunty Rosemary and Aunty Dutch are my favourites. I always sit on Aunty Dutch's lap at the game when Aunty Rosemary tells them what to do. They live in the same house and Mummy says they are special friends. Even more special than Mummy and Aunty Phyllis.
Aunty Rosemary coaches the team and Aunty Dutch is the Manager. Mummy says Rosemary's like the girl and Dutch is like the boy, even though they're both ladies. Aunty Gladys said Aunty Dutch is the 'butch' and Aunty Rosemary is the 'femme'. Aunty Phylllis said Aunty Gladys shouldn't say that. Aunty Gladys says the truth hurts. Aunty Mary said they should both mind their own beeswax. Then Mummy said they should all just shut up and get on with the game.
Mummy's the Captain and I am the Mascot and I just watch them play or sometimes they put me in the equipment bag to go to sleep. Softball is boring so I sleep a lot.
Mummy says I should like sport but I don't. I would rather watch 'Bewitched' or 'I Dream of Genie' or 'Doctor Who' or 'Thunderbirds' or 'Wonder Woman' or anything but sport. She tries to teach me how to throw properly and catch the softball, but I always throw over hand which she says is wrong. I should throw to the side. I would just rather not throw at all. And that ball is bloody hard. It hurts sometimes when I catch it because Mum throws so hard.
I throw like a girl. I run like a girl. Its embarassing. I was playing tiggy one day at school and my best friend said, "Richard runs like this!" and then ran with her hands in the air and flapped her wrists like they were wet and she was trying to dry them. Everybody laughed. I laughed too but I was really embarassed. So I didn't know how to run, without making people laugh. So I tried not to run at all.
I make people laugh a lot. I try not to but they just do. My brother's girlfriend says I have a funny face. She said she loves it. My funny face. She's a bit weird. But I suppose thats why, people laugh.

Mummy said to run with your hands down like I am going somewhere, not like I am running screaming from the bloody building! Sometimes she just doesn't know. I don't know what she just doesn't know, she just doesn't.
My brother said I have to run on my tippy-toes to make me faster on my feet cos otherwise I look like a duck, flapping along. Now I just don't know.
My cousin said I should run like Wonder Woman because she runs with her hands down and on her tippy-toes cos she has those great boots. So she showed me how to when we were playing Wonder Woman. I was Steve and she saved me and then we swapped and she was Steve and I saved her and she showed me how to do the run and the jump. And I showed her how to do the spin when she goes from Diana to Wonder Woman; she just needs to remember to go "Bpruccchhgh!" in the middle and flick her hair when she takes off the glasses.
Now I try to run like Wonder Woman because Wonder Woman runs like she's going to save the world (not like she's running screaming from a building) with her hands down and I pretend I am wearing those great boots so I remember to run on my tippy-toes. So now at least I know.
My cousin said if any one laughs she can give them a knuckle sandwich for me. But she's only visiting. And sometimes making people laugh is a good thing.

One time our class had to do a show so we all did square-dancing, which I love. I got picked because I can do it really well. Everybody laughed. At me. Not at anyone else. Because I couldn't stop smiling.
It was at assembly and we were on the stage, doing the 'doh see doh', which I love.
And everytime I came to the front everybody laughed. Everybody.
Then I started laughing too and I couldn't stop smiling. I did my 'swing my partner, round and round, skip to the loo and take a bow. And everybody laughed. Even my teacher.
When we finished, we had to hold our partners hand and take a bow, which I love. I got the most applause. I loved it. And everybody laughed. Including me.

My brothers both play sport. They play rugby league. Its boring. My Mum loves watching them play but she is very loud. She always yells at the ref. My brothers always say 'Maaaahhhm' when she tells the ref what to do. Mum says 'Bloooody Hell!' A lot. When my brothers get tackled, she says, "Get off him you bastard!" My brothers just say, "Maaaaaahhhm! Be quiet!" And she says, "Don't you tell me to be quiet! How dare you! Come here and say that and I'll dong you on the head!" She will too. She's donged my brothers on the head before.
I hate watching my brothers play because its boring and Mum is embarassing so I go and play on the swings or make daisy chains.
One time after the game, Mum told me to go and tell my brother to meet us in the carpark by the gate. I was scared because I am shy. And even though I didn't want to she kept saying "Go!" so I had to otherwise I'd be donged on the head. I went to the changerooms which were very steamy and smelt of lin-mint. And all the boys were NAKED!
I was so embarassed. I couldn't help looking. HE was NAKED and HE was NAKED and HE was NAKED. They were all NAKED! They were flicking their towels at each other. NAKED.
I just kept saying "Tom" but I couldn't find him cos they were all NAKED.
Finally one of the boys who was wearing blue and red stripy undies with the Playboy symbol asked me if I was looking for 'Stead' (thats my brother) and I said yes so he took me to see Tom who was in the showers and he was NAKED too and the boy in the undies told Tom I was there and Tom said to wait by his bag so the boy in the undies took me to wait near Tom's bag which was on the bench next to his locker. I was trying not to look but one of the NAKED boys started dancing around with his doodle flopping all about and I couldn't stop looking! I thought I was going to faint cos it was so steamy and the lin-ment was making me whoozy. When Tom came over to his bag he said, "Mifta, stop staring!" then, "MIFTA! STOP STARING!"
But I didn't know I was so I closed my mouth and said I would go and wait outside and he said cool but the doodle boy stopped me to say is this your little bro mate and tom said yes and the boy with the doodle flopping about messed up my hair and patted my bottom and I couldn't stop looking at his doodle which was hanging in front of my face which was going red cos I was so embarassed but I couldn't stop looking at his doodle cos I had never seen a doodle like that!
Then he patted my bottom again so I thought I better get outta there because maybe I'm being naughty for looking at his doodle and thats why he's hitting my bottom. I just don't know.
My Mum said lin-mint is for your aching bones or if you have a sore body. And that you can't put it on your doodle. Cos it will burn. Your doodle. If you put it on it.
Once Mummy put lin-ment on my arm because she threw the ball the wrong way and I caught it the wrong way and it hurt my arm. Bloody ball! She massaged lin-ment on my arm and it was hot. It made me hot all over. Mummy said I got flushed but not like a toilet, but with my blood. Even though I was flushed I think it made my arm feel better almost immediately.
And I think I love it. The smell. Of lin-ment. Its lovely.
It always makes me feel lovely whenever I smell it.
And my face flushes and goes red.
And I think I am going to faint.
And I start to feel a bit whoozy.
And I remember seeing that boys doodle and my face goes even redder!

The Island.

Its cold. My Mum has packed my bag to excess and its heavy on my shoulders. I have another bag that I have to take because the one on my shoulders is so full. If I hadn't stood my ground at home, I would have a bag in each hand as opposed to just one. She has the kitchen sink approach to packing, as in 'every thing but'. It drives me nuts.

I stumble as I slowly walk down the gangplank. The little Ferry boat is going up and down beside the wharf with the steady ebb and flow of the sea. The clear night is ruined by the wind that cuts like little knives at my hand which feels like it is turning blue. The nausea that seemed like it would break out of me is starting to subside as the diesel fumes are flushed from my foggy head by the clear, crisp, salty air imparted with the slightest hint of earth and grass and dung. I breathe in great luscious gulps of it.
Paddy or Nobby, the Welsh, Irishman(?) given the job of escorting me here is off and in a couple of strides is gone. I have the feeling he doesn't like children. He looked annoyed when my mother asked if he would look after me on the boat. He held my hand getting on but as soon as I sat down he was off for a smoke. He ignored me for the rest of the trip. I see him up ahead greeting my father with no acknowledgement that I was even on the boat. Some people have no idea about presentation.
No flourish. No tah dah.

My dad sees me and lifts the bag off my shoulders almost picking me up off the ground, as I chime, "Hi Daddy."
"Geez Louise! What did your mum put in this bloody bag? It weighs a tonne." I am just relieved that the bloody thing is off my back.
"How's school?" Standard dad question.
"Oh, its OK." Standard me answer.
"What are they teaching ya? Maths and stuff?"
"Yeah"
"What times table are you up to?"
"Six."
"Well, tell me what the sixes are then," he says this as he puts my bags on the tray at the rear of the tractor.
"Six times one are six, six times two are twelve, six times three are eighteen, six times four...", I drone on as I get up and stand next to the seat of the tractor that my dad plonks himself into.
The tractor starts and is noisy enough to almost drown my little voice out. I don't think my dad is really listening but I drone on nonetheless in the sing songy way I've been taught.

As I get older my dad's interest wanes and the questions he asks get fewer and fewer, until we don't really speak any more. Eventually, he sees me getting off the boat and without a nod or a hint of acknowledgement just starts walking to the car, and I am left to follow in his wake struggling with whatever bags I've been lumbered with this weekend.

I get sent here on the weekends. Every weekend. Usually with my Mum. If I am lucky with a couple of cousins. If not then by myself. I am starting to hate it. The Farm. The Island. The stinky ferry that takes an hour. The sad bunch of bogons that think this is paradise.

Eventually it's part of the divorce settlement. I have to spend time with my father or he has to have access to me. Eventually it's a bit of a joke. My father, is not really that interested in me and I hate it. The boredom of it all. This forced time together. Both of us not really that into it. My father's indifference. His eventual neglect. I hate it!

I was frightened of my own shadow and wanted to feel safe. I was never made to feel safe. I always had an intense sense of foreboding in my chest, like I was waiting for the next shoe to drop. I had no idea what shoe that was but I was always foreboding it.
I never knew what was going to happen from one weekend to the next. It was like russian roulette. I'd be lulled into thinking it was going to be a nice weekend where not only would I survive but I would have a great time with some new kids or I would stay with Mrs MacCleod which would be cool too. Then it would be me being dumped with people I didn't know or being left for hours at a time in the car while my father drank in the pub or went into the house we were parked in front of. Hideous. Boring. Hated it!
I wanted my mother, even though she embarassed me with all her stuff, when she came. It hurts to remember this now because I love her and little children can be hideous self centred ungrateful little shits most of the time. That was me. I was one of them.

I hated the way she packed everything. I hated the stripey bags, that were like bales of wool, that we would have to carry our things in. I hated what we would have to eat on the boat, usually some assorted left overs in assorted tupperware containers. I hated eating in front of all the other people on the boat, who would stare at us like we were monkeys in the zoo. I hated the, what seemed like twenty, assorted bags we all had to carry; we were always a couple of hands short. At least though, when she was here, I would be fed and generally cared for. There would be something that I could trust here but usually it was just me and russian roulette. Never knowing what I had in store for me. Hated it.

I generally just hated the whole idea of the island. I wanted to be in my own bed. Five minutes to the shops. My things all around me. Concrete and tar seal. People, colour and movement. No cow shit. No shit smells emanating from everything. Toilets that flushed instead of dropped off into oblivion. Water that came from a tap inside. Showers and bathrooms that worked.
I didn't have a childhood that the other kids had and I hated the fact I wasn't like them. I wanted to go to the pictures and watch tv late and have breakfast in bed. Not be bored silly on an island, freezing my goolies off, having to play outside, finding my own fun.

Find your own fun.

"Off you go. Find your own fun" is what the adults used to say sipping their cups of tea as they chatted in the warmth.

Find your own fun. By myself. No wonder they think I'm a space cadet. I am a bloody space cadet. No one to play with most of the time apart from the trees and god forbid I play with the animals. They all have jobs or are destined for other things.

"Don't play with the doggy! Its a working dog and you'll make her soft if you pat her."

Can't play with the sheep because they're just bloody stupid!

Or the pig. You're Bacon buddy!

Or the goat. He'll bloody go you!

Or the chickens. They won't lay if you muck about with them! They're not toys you bloody idiot!
For some reason it's the cows I am particularly mean about. I am incredibly critical of their unique dumbness.
"Moooooo, you stupid bloody thing!" The cow just looks back incredulous. "Mooooo, I said! Don't you know how to say hello back? You stupid bloody..." I think it understood, finally, and is about to give me a piece of it's mind; it's heading towards me. Shit. Up and onto the treated pine fence I go. The cow I called stupid is 'Mooing' it's head off towards me like its calling the troops to come and kick some seven year old butt. Shit.
They obviously are too stupid to have understood. They all just look over, looking bored. Stupid bloody... Ooops, here she comes! This ones not as stupid as the others, she understands english.
"Sorry, Mrs Moo Cow! Your not stupid. My mistake, I thought you were a dummy but you're obviously not!" I'm apologising from the safety of the other side of the fence.

Hate this stinky old place. Hours to fill that I could be watching TV and here I am outside by myself finding my own bloody fun!!
I go for walks up the hill and when I get to the top I sigh, "Oh what a beautiful view!" It is breathtaking (as is the whole bloody island).
I hate it, but thats what one has to say when they have walked all the way up the bloody thing.
It's beauty depresses me. Having no one to play with is a lonely business. Beauty is all well and good but if theres no one to say, "Oh yes, isn't it?" It's just not as beautiful. A prison no matter how pretty is still a prison.

Look at the boats. I wish I was on one. Look at the plane. God I really wish I was on that! Going anywhere but here. Australia. To stay with my favourite Aunty. Elsie. And her husband Uncle Bernard. Aunty Elsie always buys me wonderful presents. She buys them for everyone but I hope, that for me, they are especially good. I think they are. I think I'm her favourite. I hope I am, anyway, but I have a lot of cousins to compete with. I just do my best.

Hate this bit of my life. It just generally sucks. Being here is like killing time without a watch. It just drags on. I can't wait for the final call to leave. I pack my bags hours before I have to leave. I have my travelling clothes all ready for me to just slip into when its time to go. Two minutes and I am ready to go! Can't wait for the boat.
"Seeya!" And I'm off out of the car and running to the wharf. The ferry's not even here but I like to be ready to get on it. I don't want even the slightest chance that I will miss it, to be part of the possibilities available. I am such a geek!

'Seeya later you stupid island!' - 'Seeya later you stupid old bastard!' (I would, never in a million years, have thought this last bit, about my father, when I was a kid, but I wish I had.)
I am starting to feel happier already as the boat leaves the little island harbour. With each island we pass, my joy increases. They are like sign posts to mark the increments in anticipated joy. When I get off the boat in Auckland, at the Ferry building, I breathe a huge sigh of relief! I'm home. My stress is already subsiding as my Mum takes my bag.
"How's your Dad?" Standard Mum question.
"Oh, he's fine." Standard me answer.
"What did you do?"
"Oh, nothing special," I sing song back. I spare her the details of my boring time. I don't like to dwell. I'm home. That's all that matters. I have a another week before I have to go back.

To the prison. The boring hell. The Island.

Mother.

"Tah Dah!" My Mother stands triumphantly in front of me all jewels and lavish evening gown and enormous hair. She has her arms out like she's at the end of the catwalk doing a turn in our own special 1950's style fashion show.

I am seven and I am the baby of the family. I will always be my Mother's baby.
I'm lying on my stomach in my mini sleeping bag in flannellette pyjamas, and am twisting my head, previously aimed at the TV, to take her all in. She's a mess.
Not in a big way. Just the details.
I say, "Mummy, you can't wear that dress with those earrings and those shoes."
She says, "Oh why, whats the matter?" Her look of triumph draining from her shiny face.
I say very matter of factly, "The earrings clash with the flowers in the dress and you're wearing silver shoes which clash with your gold watch and the gold in dress."
She says with a hint of annoyance, "Oh, well what do you think I should do then?"
I say in a compassionate, sing song-y, yet 'only to be used on the dim' kind of way, "Why don't you wear your gold dancing slippers and the green flower earrings and the bag with the gold crystals all over it?"
She says in her most frustrated tone, "Oh but the earrings take forever to put up and I wore the gold slippers last week!" Sometimes its hard to remember who the child is! Did she just stamp her foot? No, not quite. Almost.
"But the dress and everything else are different aren't they? No one is going to be looking at your feet and it won't take long to pin in the earrings," I say finally, in my most Motherly tone. She still looks like she needs convincing.

Her floral earrings are my absolute favourite.
Branches of leaves and green and gold flowers with green crystals and tiny gold balls picking out the centres of the flowers; the petals and leaves in pale and dark green enamel edged in gold. On one earring, the branch rises up past the top of the ear and is secured in the hair and then falls almost to the collarbone in a drop. Its about ten inches long in total. The other earring fills the ear with flowers and then falls almost to the collarbone as well. They live in a green faille covered box lined in black velvet.
They are Fabulous with a capital F!!

The cogs of my Mother's brain suddenly click her into action and she leaves the sitting room pulling off the wrong earrings with one hand and slipping her left foot out of the clashing silver sandals with the other. She returns with a long flat box and the right gold slippers, and sits on the chair beside me. I am already out of my sleeping bag and helping to guide her foot into the left gold shoe.
She smells of floral perfume that you could only describe as heady and Lanoline that covers her face which shines like a new penny. She doesn't like make up and her only beauty products are the Lanoline that keeps her skin soft but initially greasy, deep red lipstick that defines her full mouth within her coffee coloured, high cheek boned face and black mascara that make her eyes sparkle like lakes in the moonlight.
She slips on the right hand shoe that I'm holding down for her as, hair pin in her mouth she secures the top branch of her earring into her french bun with another. She uses the last pin to firmly secure the branch in a second place and then clips the opposite earring on her other ear, the falling branches swinging back and forward grazing her neck. She looks like the exotic lady in a velvet painting my uncle has on his living room wall. Or Nefertiti.

She races from the room returning minutes later with a white crystal bag and a black clutch.
"Ok which one?"
"Neither." I say rolling my eyes. "You have to take the green crystal one."
"Which green crystal one?"
I get up and run into her room which smells of the same floral perfume mixed with Johnsons baby powder and Lanoline and other assorted florals. Its almost intoxicating. There are flowers everywhere; plastic ones hanging in leis over pictures, smoky crystal ones on perfume bottles, the wallpaper, even the old worn carpet is a bed of roses. Even her wardrobe smells floral. I climb onto her dressing table chair and look through the assortment of bags she has on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
"Make sure you put those back," she says as I start pulling down each bag until I finally get what I'm looking for. I hold it out to her like a jewelled offering to a queen. She looks at it as if she has never seen it before.
I remember almost everything in her wardrobe, from her bags and shoes to her Mink wrap and Fox fur coat. (Its not really fox, I think its rabbit or possum made to look like fox but its fabulous too!)
"That one? Are you sure? I've never worn that with this dress before." She takes it from me looking sceptically at the green crystal bag with flecks of gold at the edges.
She stands in front of the enormous mirror, the bag in front of her dress.
Its perfect.
"Its perfect!"
I know.
She stands turning this way and that, checking her hair, removing invisible bits of fluff from her dress and holding the bag on her wrist out to one side like a temple heiroglyph from ancient Egypt. She's a mass of colour and movement. It all works. She's all florally, shimmery and crystal encrusted. Fabulous!! Perfect!
Now I can go back to 'Saturday Night Disney' and 'Herbie the Love Bug.'
As I'm settling back in my sleeping bag, getting comfortable, she comes in again and does her final twirl.
"Alright?" She asks again.
"Beautiful," I say. My work here is done.
I am now transfixed by the TV as she bends down and making sure not to smudge her lipstick kisses an air kiss next to my ear and holds my face to her greasy floral cheek.
"Night darling. Don't stay up past your bedtime and listen to Aunty Phyllis when she says go to bed, go to bed. Ok" I kiss her cheek sideways getting lanolin on the corner of my mouth. It tastes kind of soapy. Gross!
"Ok" I say using my the shoulder of my pyjama top to wipe the lanolin off my cheek.
And she's gone. Off to a Social. Or a ball. Or anywhere there is a band and dancing.
The floral cloud sits in gusts all around me for at least the next half hour.
I'm pleased that another fashion disaster has been averted and my Mother hasn't gone out looking like a very glamourous bag lady who got dressed in the dark!

I don't remember falling asleep. My Aunty Phyllis has carried me to my bed while I've slept. I wake to the sound of voices. Its my Mum and Aunty Phyllis laughing and talking in the kitchen. I tiptoe out and they sit there in their bathrobes. My Mum still with her hair up and remains of make up from the night before, cup of tea in hand. Aunty Phyllis pouring another cup, looking like a crazy woman, her hair not picking a direction.
"Morning sleepy head," my mum says as I kiss her and Aunty Phyllis hello.
Theres a plate of cakes sitting in the middle of the table covered by a serviette. They're for me. Pre-empting my request, my Mother says, "You can have some after you have your cornflakes."

I'm spoilt but in a nice way. My Mother always brings home cakes from the socials or balls that she goes to, and being Samoan shes quite keen on an assortment. The best ones come from the socials organised by the clubs that Mum belongs too. Like the Samoan Pioneers Social Club. Everyone bakes cakes and takes their delicious offerings along. For some, its a point of prestige to bake the most delicious cakes. My Mother usually makes pineapple pie. Its one of the dishes she makes really well. Its easy and doesn't need perfect mixing like a sponge.
It consists of sweet short crust pastry baked then sprinkled with pineapple chunks and covered in custard and is what gastronomic dreams are made of. To me its the perfect dish. Sweet with tart, creamy and flaky, multi- textured: sublime. If mum is being particularly posh she makes a sweet soft meringue to go on top and yet another delicious texture is added.
Sometimes I wonder how she gets them into her tiny clutch purses. Its always like a mini buffet for us the day after. I think its a polynesian thing; being able to carry as much food as possible away from the table in the smallest possible package and still look elegant.
This morning all the cakes are being cut into three pieces to include Aunty Phyllis.
I love Aunty Phyllis. She doesn't have a sweet tooth, so she has a tiny piece of pineapple pie and pushes the rest at me. Told you I was spoilt. Spoilt in a nice way. Spoilt but polite.
I say, "Aunty Phyllis? May I have the rest of your pineapple pie, please?" I nearly always may.
"Yes, you may." I have been trained well.

I knew how to use my knife and fork by the time I was four. I say 'please' and 'thankyou' with every request and for everything I receive. I got smacked if I didn't and I didn't like getting smacked so I learnt fast. A raised hand was all I needed. That meant I was close. How close? This close! That was close enough.
My nephew says my parents told him I was the perfect child, usually in reference to him not being so. I am. I was. Terrified.
Scared of my own shadow. Scared of being bad. Naughty.
I'm scared of the dark. Scary movies. Being left alone. Strangers. Creepy crawlies. Change. Anything I don't know.
I never got dirty. Ever.
I'd scream if I ever got any dirt on me. Eventually I worked out dirt wouldn't hurt me but for most of my early childhood I keep as far away from it as possible. Yukky!
"What do you do at school each day?" It was my Mother holding up my clothes to be washed. They're spotless.
"Huh?" I'm engrossed in 'Bugs Bunny'.
"Don't you play any sport at playtime? Your clothes are never dirty." She mumbles this last sentence to herself. She sounds disappointed. I hate disappointing her!
"Yeah, I play sport," I lie. Usually I sit with the girls and talk crap. Crap about boys. Crap about TV. Crap about stuff I've overheard.
"Well you never seem to get dirty," she half mumbles, half questions this again.
"We play on the tar seal so there is no dirt," I lie again. More Crap!
"Oh ok," she sounds relieved and leaves me to Bugs. I determine to get dirty next time I'm at school.

Ooooh, its gross! I have just finished school and both my hands are in a muddy puddle on the side of the playing field. My firiends are looking at me like I'm weird. Gee, whats new!
Its cold and wet and dirty. Yuk!
I rub my shirt and shorts with my dirty hands. Most of the dirt falls off but leaves some very decent stains. They dry perfectly on the bus home.
When I walk in my Mother almost gleefully says, "Oh my goodness! What a mess!" I know its Gross! Isn't it!?
"Sorry, I got pushed over." I put my best deflated pout on my face. Its face setting number two. Sad.
She's wrapped. I clean up and she makes me peanut butter sandwiches. She hums to herself. She hasn't noticed I am spotlessly clean everywhere else and that there is not a skerrick dirt on my shoes.
They are pristine. Perfect.
But she is happy. Thats the main thing. She goes back to her delusions.
That her baby, the baby of the family, is normal.
Boys get dirty. Thats the rule.
I told you I learn stuff quickly.

Childhood still.

My other best friend is blonde. He has blue eyes. He is very happy. His Mum and Dad pick him up in their flash car. He has a baby brother, who is blonde and has blue eyes. We are like a pair of salt and pepper shakers (who knew my version of the perfect gay couple would imprint so early).
We're the same height but as blonde as he is, I am dark. I am brown. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Brown skin, especially in summer. In summer I get called 'blacky' instead of 'sissy'. I say "Shut up you vanilla ice cream!" My Mum says they are just jealous cos they can't go brown as easy as us. They just go red, those silly 'pa a palagi'. Pah- lung- hee is Samoan for 'white man'.
When we go to Samoa, my uncle takes us for drives around the island or into town on the back of his white Toyota pick-up. All the kids in the villages we pass, scream, "Palagi!Palagi!" They're screaming at me! Because to them I am white. They don't know that I get called 'blacky'. I am six and completely offended by these dumb Samoans. "Fa a Samoa! Fa a Samoa!" I scream back. I am Samoan. Dumb boongas!
The rest of my family are very proud when I do this. They laugh and giggle. They laugh and giggle some more. Gee they laugh and giggle a lot. I ask my Mum why do they laugh so much. They are happy she says. They have weird jokes. When I ask where somone or something is, my Aunty Janet pulls her lower eyelid down and says laughing, "In there." All my cousins laugh. I think they're dumb, but I am the dumb one. I don't know much Samoan. Mum won't teach me. Samoan won't get me any where in the world, she says.
I only know hello, goodbye, how are you, I love you and eat shit stupid! The last one is my favourite, so I yell it at the kids who call me palagi. "Ai- khiii! Ai-khiii! Pe pell ohh" I yell back.
My uncle and my Mum shush me and tell me not to but they both smile when they say it.
The other word I get to know extremely well is 'fafa- fingeh'. Samoan for poofter I suppose. In New Zealand if your a girly boy like me you're called a poofter. So in my family I get a lot of 'fafa-fingeh'. Even some of my Aunties call me fafa-fingeh. My Mum shushes them too but she doesn't smile when she does it. She just looks worried.
My other best friend got called poofter. Once. I think. Not as much as me, but I think thats because I look more like a girl. I think he got called poofter because he likes Abba. He has Abba everything. Abba pencilcase, Abba lunchbox, Abba bedspread and lots of Abba posters on his wall. I think I'm a little jealous of all his Abba. I wish I was him. He has blonde hair, blue eyes, a baby brother, a Mum and Dad who have a flash car and a new house.
Their house is as beautiful as mine is Ugly!
Their carpet is the colour of clear winter sky, pale almost shiny blue. My family surprised my Mum with brand new carpet when she was away. She was very surprised. Its reddy, browny, burnt orangey, almost florally but not, more carbuncley than carnationy and Mum loves it. She says it great because it won't show the dirt. She loves stuff that doesn't show the dirt. Thats her thing. Thats why we have a brown couch.
Their house is new and smells new. My house is old but smells of Vim. Mum uses Vim on everything, even the carpet. My house is nearly eighty years old. It looks like its had a hard life. All the paint is chipped. Their house is mock brick, with White doors that have ice frosted glass panels on the side. We have glass panels on the side of our door too but its red and green and yellow. My brother told me it was stained. Not even Vim could get that off, apparently.
They have an indoor toilet. To go to our toilet, I have to go out the back door and along the verandah lean too thing my dad built. The toilet door has gaps; a big one at the top and and a small one at the bottom. Thats where my dad goes when he has to see a man about a dog. The man is never there when I go. Neither's the dog.
I don't have a baby brother but I have two brothers and a sister. I'm the youngest. My Mum always says I'm the baby of the family. I will always be my Mother's baby.
My oldest brother works for 'the White Lady'. Its a like a huge white caravan that is parked in the city late at night and makes the best hamburgers and chips and milk shakes. My brother works all night and some times he brings us all hamburgers and milkshakes for breakfast.
When I was three he bought me a little suede fringed vest that I obviously hated at the time. I have the photos to prove it. The look on my face in one, is like someone just made me wear dog poo. My Mum told me my brother was devastated when he put it on me and I cried. He used his first pay packet to buy it for me. Lucky I kept it, because when I was nine I was brave enough to wear it finally. It was a huge hit at school (and a fashion victim - whore was born!). Everyone kept saying how 'cool' it was. Didn't I look 'cool'. I was so 'cool'. I wore it till it almost fell apart and was devastated when it would no longer fit. Mum gave it to my cousin Timmy. I didn't think he looked as 'cool' in it as me but it didn't matter because it still made Timmy feel 'cool' for a long time too.

My brother was my hero even when I didn't know any better, or was too dumb to appreciate it. Always has been. He never called me a sissy. He tried to teach me how to box. I punch like a girl. He tried to show me how to do it properly but I missed and hit him in the balls. He bent down writhing in pain so I hit him in the face. We all laughed. He stopped teaching me when I kept going to hit him in the balls. He said it wasn't good sportsmanship but I thought it was hilarious.
Later when I was getting teased a lot at school and didn't want to go, he gave me a ride to school on his big motorbike. Some of his friends were bikies. They used to play rugby league with him. They were in a gang. None of the gang or his friends ever teased me or said anything nasty about me. I was Tom's 'little bro' and they had a code of honour. As girly as I was, the bikies never said a word. He used to look like a bikie too. He is tall and at the time had long hair, a moustache, a beard and used to wear dirty leather jeans and a motorcycle jacket. His bike was like a chopper and made a fantastic noise. My Mum always said, "Oh Tom," when he wore his bikie gear.
I had to wear a helmet with the straps pulled together hard because my head was too small and I had to hold onto him tightly so I wouldn't fall off. I had to concentrate hard to hold my head on straight because the helmet was heavy and my head kept lolling back and forward. Eventually I just pushed my face into his back. On the back of his bike, motoring along, making sure I leaned into the corners when we went around them, I was completely safe. Nothing could hurt me when I was snuggled into his back that was warm and smelt of grease and leather; hurtling along at a million miles an hour.
When we got to school, I jumped off and said goodbye. He stopped me and said he was going to come too, to see my teacher. OK, I thought not sure why. He made sure I held his hand when we went into school and we had to walk all the way through the playground to get to my classroom. The playground just ground to a halt. It was like a gigantic alien from Mars had landed and was holding my hand. My teacher looked like she had swallowed her chalk when he walked in.
I went out to play and after about twenty minutes he came out with my teacher to say goodbye. My best friend ran away when I said come and say hello to my brother, but my other best friend came and said "Hi." His eyes almost fell out of his head and he couldn't stop smiling up at my brother when my he came over to say goodbye to us.
My teacher was smiling and shook his hand, and she told me later that I was lucky to have such a nice brother. Yeah I was very lucky. I was very lucky to have such a nice brother who looked like a bikie that could make you look like you'd swallowed your chalk.
After he came to school, one mention of my brother would silence the bullies in a flash. It lasted for about a year. A year was better than none.

Childhood.

My first memory - hazy like in a dream, blurry details, feels warm, I am loved, people laughing - I am dancing in my dad's singlet. It's like a dress on me. I love it! Its soft from years of wear.
I am doing a hula dance in the middle of a group of my family and my mother's friends, sitting around making hula skirts and leis out of crepe paper; all of whom are laughing. I feel great. I'm a star! In a dress. Doing the Hula!
Suddenly I am picked up from behind as if someone has bent right over me, lifting me upside down, up and up and up and over! I am spun over to sit on my father's shoulders. I am king of all I survey. I am a beloved princess in the tower looking over her many faithfull subjects.
I am a princess! Princess Ricky of Waiheke Island!

"Good Mooorning Mrs Blaaah Blaaah!" I'm surrounded by kids and thats what we just droned out in a very sing songy way. We're sitting on the floor with our legs folded looking up at the teacher. She's not pretty but she's kind. Firm. But kind.

I'm six and running in the playground. Playing 'Chasey'. I have no idea how but the rules suddenly turn into 'if I catch you, I am going to kiss you'. What the hell!? I am running after the boys with the girls to catch and kiss them. I think its lots of fun. The boys, mostly, are all mock terror at the 'girl germs' coming after them and completely bewildered at why I am behaving like one of the girls. I have no idea its not what I am supposed to do until I kiss one of the boys and he squeals in disgust and horror. Everyone else including the girls are pointing, laughing, squealing - teasing him!? eeeeooouuuu! Yaaaaackkk! Riiiiichaaard! - teasing Me!!! Laughing, now that I think of it, with no trace of malice (that comes later).

"Are you a boy or a girl?" The little girl interrogating me looks smug and self-satisfied, well, as much as a nine year old can.
"A boy!" I say indignantly. 'Isn't it obvious, ya big dummy!' Really, its not. With my pageboy haircut that my beautiful, glamourous, famous older sister got her beautiful, glamourous, famous hairdresser to do.
My sister took me out specially to get my haircut where she gets her haircut. Mum said it cost her an arm and a leg but I have NO idea whose arm and leg were involved; she still seems to have hers.
Mum dressed me up specially so I was wearing my brown shirt with little white peacocks and my brown corduroy dungarees. I went to the Saloon and a pretty girl washed my hair and kept the water out of my eyes. She said I had 'lovely hair' and 'I was a very good boy!'
My sister in fox furs draped around her neck, looking, for all intents and purposes like a dark Stevie Nicks chatted and fussed around.I was king for a day!!! All the assistant hairdressers fussed around too. One of them pinched my cheeks. "You're such a pretty boy! Adorable!"
'I am ADORABLE!' Aren't I?
I think it's supposed to be a secret.
I am too pretty to be a boy as well. Thats what everyone says. 'He's too pretty to be a boy!' they say to Mum. She just shushes them or tells them to 'Shut-Up!' like they are lying. I can never work out if they are. Maybe I'm not pretty at all. There is a lot of shushing going on around me especially when I am near or I walk into a room. I hate the shushing. It un-nerves me.
Shushes can be deafening. My Mother shushes people a lot around me. Praise is obviously NOT allowed.
"Pretty." Shush.
"Gorgeous." Shush.
"Adorable?"
'Aren't I adorable?' At home, obviously not! Just a lot of shushing. The shushing eventually gets worse. Like a vacuum cleaner on in another room. Something at home is always left unsaid. Some dreaded fear that sits like an elephant in the corner of the room, not saying anything but it's presence, ominous.
My Daddy, my hero, goes from picking me up and putting me on his shoulders with pride to barely saying hello to me when he comes in.
I watch the TV.
I love the TV.
I am going to have square eyes like the TV.
I sit too close.
At least the TV doesn't shush.
It doesn't focus on me.
I focus on it.
It doesn't whisper about me. It says what it needs to say. It's never about me.

My Daddy says nothing when comes in. He's been drinking down the pub.
I'm in bed. I've been crying. Wanted my Daddy. To read me the story.
My Mummy's crying talking to my Daddy, crying as she talks about 'the poorkid.'
My Daddy comes in to my room to kiss me good night. He kisses my forehead and I pretend I'm asleep. He smells of beer.
He rubs his hand over my head gently.
"Nite, nigh, Swee -dreams." He slurs.
He's trying to tip toe out but trips over a toy.
"Fucking, Jesus!" He yelps falling out the door.
"Shush!" he says to himself, then giggles.
Mummy says something, then, 'bloody idiot.'
I hear nothing else as they go into the sitting room.
Nothing more to say.
Shushes gone now.
Nigh nigh, swee-dreams.

At school things are being said. I get a lot of 'Boy or Girl' questions.
The teasing starts in earnest after that.
It reaches its crescendo, when I am about eight and I tell my best friend that I think I'm in love with a beautiful ten year old boy.
He's the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.
I think I'm in love.
I get butterflies whenever he is near.
I think he's beautiful.
I think he's beautiful, until I am dragged by my best friend(I hate her!) and another boy (I hate him) drag me away from my play time to face the boy I love.
They are screaming.
It sounds like screaming.
I can't hear straight.
"Richard luurves Blah!Blah!"
I'm screaming, fear, desperation surging through me. Desperate to get away, embarrassed, crying I finally break free and run into the empty classroom. Empty except for Miss Bitch. All she says to me is, "Richard, you are not supposed to be in here!"
Miss Bitch is plain too, but not fair.
I struggle through my tears and hyperventilating to explain what happened. She doesn't care. Rules are rules. Children are not allowed in the Classroom's at Playtime when its not raining! Desperate I slowly make my way to the cloakroom. I look out the slit of a window.
"Out now!" Its Miss Bitch yelling from the Classroom.
I look again. No ones there. Obviously my torturers have found some other prey.
My eyes are still red.
Other kindhearted children ask if I am ok.
A teacher comes along and asks briskly "Whats up? Why've you been crying?"
I'm too embarrassed to say.
I determine never to tell anyone ever again who I love or even who I like.
Never.
I like no one.
Never again.
I shut up!
My 'best' friend says, "It was just a joke." She and the other boy are laughing as if I am being silly.
Silly billy.
Something though is broken, not to be fixed for a long, long time.
It's a little bit dead.
I'm a little bit dead....and she's NOT my best friend any more.
I never forget.
Never.
And when one day years and years later, she tells me of her broken heart.
She's pregnant.
She's my friend - I don't hold a grudge, I'm concerned.
Whats she going to do?
Has she told her Mum yet?
Her Dad?
She's my friend and she's upset.
She's my friend, but I am a little bit..... glad.
Forgive and forget.
I don't hold a grudge.
But.
I am.
A.
Little.
Bit.
GLAD!
Theres an eight year old whooping it up quietly somewhere in the back of my...head?
Ha haaaaa!
Where is it?
HAAA! HAAAAAA!
No, its coming from down below.
From above my instinct and below my voice.
"Serves you right, meany! Serves you right for killing me! Now your heart is broken and you are pregnant! Boo! Hoo! It hurts doesn't it?"
I'm embarrassed.
I don't hold a grudge.
I'm nice.
I got a Certificate to prove it.
Awarded to 'The nicest person in the class.'
I'm a nice boy aren't I?
I am nice aren't I?
I am nice?
I AM NICE!
Bugger it.
I can't think straight? - that bloody eight year old is still screaming in the background squealing with glee!