Bellybutton: The Source Of My Strength

BELLYBUTTON

The Source of My Strength

Daniel Felix

Copyright © 2020 Daniel Felix

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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It makes sense to start at the beginning. In one word I can summarise my own genesis, BELLYBUTTON, a word which signifies the scar on the abdomen that is left when the umbilical cord is cut and removed from a newborn baby. My story is also about a spiritual and emotional scar, caused when I became somewhat separated from my creator. We all understand the functionality of the umbilical cord – basically it sustains the life of the unborn, under-developed and vulnerable fetus by proving food and oxygen. It is our lifeline for survival, during times of under development, where too fragile to go it alone. We all have the ability to become a bellybutton, yet there is only one who provides all that we need.

To my daughter Sky, the flesh of my flesh. This was our journey, and it is a privilege to have shared it with you. All I want to say is, thank you for saving me from myself and for helping me become the father I am today. You have grown into an amazing person and mother, enriching my life by giving me the honour of being witness to the birth of my beautiful grandchildren, Reign-Andrew and Royal-Fatai. I am so proud of you. Xxx

To my wife Tracey, imagine from one kiss as kids, to saying I do as big people. Never underestimate the power of the kiss babe. I fell in love with you all those years ago and love you twice as much today. I dedicate this, my life’s story to you. Xxx

I give the highest praise to ADONAI, the God of Abraham, Isaac & Jacob, for he is the true author of this book, it was always His story to tell, I was just the vessel, led by the holy spirit. ‘Blessed be the name of the ADONAI’

Table of Contents

Chapter One – A Miracle

Chapter Two – A Son

Chapter Three – A Friend

Chapter Four – A Boyfriend

Chapter Five– A Graduate

Chapter Six – A Lover

Chapter Seven – A Player

Chapter Eight – A Husband

Chapter Nine – A Father

Chapter Ten – An Orphan

Chapter Eleven - Searching

Chapter Twelve - Still Searching

Chapter Thirteen - Rumble in the Jungle

Chapter Fourteen - An Adulterer

Chapter Fifteen - A Lying, Cheating Bastard

Chapter Sixteen - Sorry Isn’t Enough

Chapter Seventeen - Karma’s a Bitch

Chapter Eighteen - Cocktails

Chapter Nineteen - Natural Beauty

Chapter Twenty - Mr & Mrs Smith

Chapter Twenty-One - A Soulja

Chapter Twenty-Two - Felix Vs Felix

Chapter Twenty-Three - The Intruder

Chapter Twenty-Four - A Dark Cloud

Chapter Twenty-Five - A Single Parent

Chapter Twenty-Six - Ears to Hear

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Fallen

Chapter Twenty-Eight - A Wretch Lost and Found

Chapter Twenty-Nine - A Coward

Chapter Thirty - Repent

Chapter Thirty-One – A Disciple of Christ Yeshua

Chapter One – A Miracle

A door opened. A voice that sounded like a trumpet said, Come up here and I will show you all that has taken place.

Immediately I was in the Spirit and saw a throne and one sitting on the throne, and out from the throne came flashes of lightning, thunder and voices. As I approached, there were four living creatures surrounding the throne. The first creature was like a lion, the second like a calf, the third creature had a face like that of a man, the fourth creature was like a flying eagle, and the four living creatures, each one of them having six wings, were full of eyes around and they did not cease saying holy, holy, holy is God, the Almighty, who was, who is and who is to come.

It felt as if I was wrapped in a blanket of fear; my bones began shaking violently. The hair on my flesh bristled. The form before my eyes was something like fire, and there was a radiance around him. I fell on my face and began to worship uncontrollably.

Then the one seated on the throne spoke to me, saying, Son of man, do not be afraid, come see for yourself. In his hands he held a large, open book. Come and I will show you, he said.

At first glance, as I approached, I couldn’t quite make sense of what I was seeing on the open pages of the book, but looking closer I began to recognise the images – they were all me; the book was all about me.

My LORD what is this, what does this mean? I asked.

I have searched for you and I know you, I know when you sit and when you rise, I understand your thoughts from afar, even before there was a word on your tongue, said the figure seated on the throne.

How? Why? I don’t understand.

I was there with you the whole time; your frame was never hidden from me. Look, he said as he pointed to one of the images on the page, "there you are when you got your first tooth.

"And there are you again, your first day at school.

"But look closer, this is the day you were born.

"The day I breathed life into your lungs.

It was I who skillfully formed your inward parts and wove you in the secret place of your mother’s womb where at such an early stage you showed an eagerness to fulfil your purpose, which I placed in you well before the foundations of the world.

It was at this point that I fell into a deep sleep; I had arrived at where it all began. There was darkness all around me. I felt isolated, but not alone. I felt an overwhelming warmth as if I was close to someone who was the source of that warmth. I was naked, but not ashamed, the cocoon of my undeveloped body exposed to the elements. Here, there was no day or night, just being, an immersion in a continual transformation. With my fingers I began to explore my face; my thumb slid into my mouth, soothing myself I fell asleep.

Low frequency sounds combined with muffled voices, a variety of different instruments playing harmoniously, heartbeats, nerve endings, organs, life sounds like an orchestra playing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Floating around in a state of total submersion, there was a sense that something felt different, a certain flow, yet also a feeling of anxiety. Suddenly, a powerful force took hold of me and pulled me downwards. It has begun.

I tried my best to resist, but I wasn’t strong enough, so I let go and began soaring through a tunnel until, finally, there was a flicker of light that got brighter and brighter, closer and closer, and like a bride and a groom, we became one.

Now I was surrounded by figures in white uniforms; with great care a hand lifted me up and, brandishing a sharp metal object on my abdomen, cuts through the umbilical cord. I was whisked away, placed carefully on a table and wrapped in a soft, white cloth. As I turned to look around, though my vision was blurry and obscured, I could just about make out a woman lying on a bed; she looked exhausted and distressed. I called out to her and at that moment our eyes met. With her hand she wiped the sweat from her brow and smiled at me; for a split second I felt as though I already knew her.

My premature body was placed inside some sort of neurodevelopment dungeon, wired up to beeping machines. There were wires and tubes all around, many of which were fixed to my body, in places I cannot even bring myself to mention. As I peered through the glass, I made out a blurred figure approaching me. I recognised the face; it was the same lady I saw lying on the bed. Looking directly at me, she smiled. Her eyes were brimming with water; she placed a palm on the glass and mouthed the words, I love you. Instantly I began to cry. With her other hand she reached inside through a small opening and with a finger she stroked my hand. We stayed like this for some time – gazing, talking, stroking – then she blew me a kiss before returning to her bed.

Every day after that she would come and visit me, following the same ritual, placing one hand on the glass and then stroking my hand with her finger. Then finally, one day she told me it was time for us to go home. I was so excited, even though I had no idea what home was, but just the tone of her voice and her sense of excitement made me pee myself.

I remember how she lifted me out of my glass cell and held me close to her, with such loving care. This was our first full contact. She felt so warm. I was mesmerised by her scent. Firmly secured in her arms, she turned around and presented me to this strange-looking man. When he saw me, his whole face lit up. Awkwardly holding me close, in fear of dropping me, he kissed me on the cheek; his face felt spiky and smelt of alcohol. He made strange cooing sounds, which caught my attention, as the tone of his voice sounded so familiar, I realised that I heard it before when I was developing during my time spent in inner space.

When we got outside, the spiky-faced man with the scent of alcohol shouted for a taxi. As we climbed inside, he mumbled a coded message to the driver, and it wasn’t long before we arrived at the place called home. Still in the woman’s arms, she carried me to the front door. Someone came and opened the door.

Congratulations!

Once inside, I noticed the place was packed with people and when they saw us, they went nuts. They surrounded us like they were the paparazzi.

Ahhh, isn’t he adorable?

He’s so tiny!

Bless, he has his father’s nose.

He’s definitely got his mother’s eyes.

At this point, I thought to myself, I wonder if that’s why they’ve brought me home, because they wanted their eyes and nose back?

The spiky-faced man gestured to the woman holding me to pass me over to him. Holding me firmly, he lifted me up and presented me to everyone as his beloved son. I guess this means that this man is my dad. As I looked at him, I could see a slight resemblance. I thought to myself, so if he’s my father, then I take it this lovely lady that brought me here must be my mother.

As a young lad I grew up in what could best be described as a typical West Indian home, even though we lived in England. Home life consisted of rice and peas, Jim Reeves, church on Sunday and cricket. I could never understand the fascination with the sport, but my dad was a huge fan. He would physically be held hostage in front of the TV for hours, shouting and cursing the whole time; all I remember was Viv Richards this and Viv Richards that – it was like an obsession. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, if for some odd reason you were deemed ‘hard of hearing’, this always resulted with an occasional ass-whooping, which would be considered an act of love. I get it, but sometimes you didn’t even have to do anything wrong to receive this level of kindness. It always started with a look, then without any warning: BLAM!

Living in London back then was different when compared with today’s society. We didn’t have mod cons like Sky TV or mobile phones; we basically lived in what is called a ‘no-frills’ zone. We lived bang in the heart of the East End, where everyone knew each other. On my street alone, I had at least ten other mums and dads, and each one of them would scorn you if you failed to greet them with a ‘Good Morning’ or ‘Good Afternoon’. It was also a place where you could leave your front door wide open, and no one would dare enter without your permission. Yes, there was a dark side to East London, but on the surface it was a tight-knit community, inhabited by chirpy Cockney barrow boys who said things like ‘having a butcher’s’, ‘telling porkies’ and ‘diamond geezer’. It was like learning a second language.

For anyone who grew up in London in the seventies, you will be familiar with the term ‘hand-me-downs’. You could always spot a kid that was a victim of this crime. I was the original CSI version since I always looked like I was shrinking rather than growing, a bit like Benjamin Button. Couple this with the fact that my mum had in her possession a state-of-the-art Singer sewing machine (Nimbus 2000), which she would swear by. She once made an evening dress for my sister out of old curtains, and I thought I had it bad.

Next door to us lived a lovely old lady by the name of Mrs. Drake. I never knew her first name since us youngsters we were never privileged to adults’ first names. We were only allowed to call them by their family name, such as, Mrs. Wilson or Mr. Henry, and if you thought that you were man enough to ask them for their first name, you knew exactly what was coming: BLAM! You learnt quickly that it was not worth the drama. Anyway, Mrs. Drake was married to Mr. Drake, who died at a ripe old age. God rest his soul. He was a quiet man with a gentle nature. I remember how I would climb over the fence into their back garden and have a snoop around in his shed. Inside it was very dusty with a strong smell of diesel. There were rusty tools in old wooden boxes, a manual lawn mower made of a few twisted blades with two rubber wheels either side and a broomstick for a handle. In the garden there was a big apple tree, and in the summer, Mrs. Drake would pick the fruit and bake an apple pie for us. Unfortunately, she too died when I was young. I think because she missed Mr. Drake so much, she went looking for him.

Rest in peace, Mr. and Mrs. Drake.

Since my parents believed in God, our house was filled with religious paraphernalia, including rosaries, written scripture and religious phrases on the walls, like ‘God Bless This House’. The focal point of the living room, besides Dad’s well-polished wooden gram, was a painting of the Lord’s supper. My dear old mother was a devoted Catholic. She could recite all the psalms and scriptures, word for word, and insisted that we all attend our local church every Sunday. Let’s put it this way, you had to have a damn good excuse why you couldn’t attend. In the morning, she would wake us up by calling out once, and only once, and if we didn’t respond within five minutes, she would burst into our bedroom, pull the blankets off us and with every ‘Hail Mary’ she would beat us with anything she could get her hands on. She would tell me that the God she serves is an all-seeing God, therefore what she didn’t see, he would.

Those chilling words were a constant reminder, like a medallion wrapped around my neck. Such as the time when I was in a local sweetshop, just me and the shopkeeper, who was about ninety years old, partially blind and with the kind of memory where she forgot what she was talking about. Anyway, there it was, staring right at me, elegant and smooth, the biggest bar of chocolate I had ever seen, covered in a velvet wrapper. I knew it was wrong, but I just had to have it, so when the old lady wasn’t looking – to be honest, I don’t even think she had heard me enter – I carefully slipped it into my jacket pocket. At that moment I heard those chilling words ringing in my head: What I don’t see, the LORD will. I tried to ignore the voice, but a deep penetrating fear set in. I convinced myself that if God could see me now, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell Mum at the drop of a hat, which meant a belt, a shoe, worst of all, it meant an uppercut to the jaw… hell no! I put that chocolate right back where I found it.

It is written in scripture that:

All discipline for the moment seems not to be joyful, but sorrowful. Yet to those who have been trained by it, afterwards it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness. (Hebrews 12:11)

I definitely agree with the sorrowful part, but I couldn’t see how a bag of apples would bring me peace after receiving proper licks. My mum, short in stature, cuddly by nature, sweet and oozing with maternal love, one would call a yummy mummy, but don’t be fooled, she didn’t play; allow me to elaborate. It was just an ordinary Saturday morning at home; we had all been given cleaning chores and mine was to polish. I was in the living room dusting furniture with my can of Mr. Sheen, flipping doilies and polishing my mum’s favourite glass cabinet. I wasn’t quite sure where my mum was, but I knew that she was close by. Absentmindedly, while cleaning, I mumbled the words, bwoy me bloodclart tired.

It was a strange phrase that I had picked up in the playground from one of my Jamaican mates. I wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but to me it sounded pretty cool. Little did I know that my mum had just walked into the room and overheard what I had mumbled. Calmly she asked me to repeat the phrase, which I did without a second thought.

I said, bwoy me bloodclart tired.

That’s when things got fuzzy. Suddenly, everything went dark, as though there had been a power cut. All I can remember when I opened my eyes, was feeling slightly groggy and finding myself lying on the floor of the living room. Mum was nowhere to be seen. I got up and rubbed my jaw, which was sore, and carried on dusting.

With every breath Mum ensured that her children were all raised as devout Catholics. Among other things, this meant attending Sunday school every Saturday morning (I know, don’t ask), mass every Sunday, saying prayers before bed, confessing sins to the priest, holy communion, as well as confirmation. Our local community church was a typical Catholic church, consisting of stone-cut steps, high ceilings and gothic doors. There were also fonts that contained holy water, which allowed the congregation to bless themselves with when entering and leaving the church. The windows were made of stained glass and there were statues honouring religious figures such as Virgin Mary and the saints. There were also enormous stone pillars etched with golden Roman numerals. Also, a huge cross hanging above the altar, representing Christ’s crucifixion, as well as the typical rows of pews, where the congregation sat and could kneel on cushions at specific times during the mass. The atmosphere inside could be best described as a kind of library, where solitude and the low hum of voices, like mosquitos, were prevalent.

As a child I found the whole going-to-church experience quite confusing, as no one explained the reasoning behind it all. For example, You shall not make for yourself an idol, or any likeness of what is in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the water under the earth. You shall not worship them or serve them. (Exodus 20:4) Yet as I walked into church, I would be presented with a statue of the Virgin Mary or an image of Jesus on a cross. Even celebrating Christmas, I would flick through the pages of the New Testament searching for anything that confirmed that Jesus was born on the 25th or a connection between him and Santa Claus. As for Easter and the whole bunny thing – well, let us just say that went right over my head. During Sunday school – which was on a Saturday, of course, if that wasn’t confusing enough – we were one by one ushered into a dark box with a small seat and blacked-out windows with a wire mesh, where I confessed sins that I had no recollection of committing. For some reason I felt that I had to say something; I couldn’t just sit there while the priest listened on the other side. Basically I had inherited a doctrine which made no sense to me.

We have replaced rich, robust theology in the church with emotional music and constant reminders that God is love and loves you and He’s your personal Saviour and loves your soul...."

These words are great at brining outsiders through the doors (because they’re true by and large) but poor at growing believers into mature witnesses with rich understanding of the deep things of God. (Ethan Renoe)

Chapter Two – A Son

Deep inside the evidence within me knew of him – For God created mankind in his own image – yet I still didn’t understand. Not wanting to upset Mum, I still went to church every Sunday.

During mass one day, I was standing at the back of the church, near to the entrance. I noticed a young black girl asking members of the congregation for money, apparently to buy a bag of crisps – harmless, I thought. It wasn’t long before she eventually approached me, to which I replied, Sorry, I’m skint. It was at that point that I had realised that she may have had a few mental issues, as from the tone of her voice, she sounded simple-minded. She then moved away from me and continued asking others. A few gave her money, though many appeared to be irritated and, going by their body language, slightly judgmental. I watched as a priest approached her, then ushered her out of the building in a very abrupt manner, which, to my child-like, impressionable mind, didn’t seem very Christian-like. When I got home, I explained to Mum what had happened and how it made me feel. Half expecting her to scorn me in some way, unexpectedly she actually understood. I never went back to church after that day.

As for my dad, he’s another character altogether. When I was a kid, I remember every Friday we would wait for him to come home from work so that we could eat together as a family, a tradition that Mum was particular about. Unfortunately, Dad being Dad, he had a habit of turning up late, and often slightly worse for wear; his state of drunkenness would depend on whether or not it was the end of the month, hence pay day.

This situation tested Mum’s patience to the point where she would start shouting at him, reminding him of his table manners, to sit up straight and stop dribbling in front of the children. Not one to apologise, he’d respond by saying something in Creole, which we could never understand, but we guessed by his tone of voice and hand gestures that it meant something like, Stop your noise, woman. Like a peacock fluffing up its feathers, this was his way of demonstrating that he wore the trousers as head of the household. I guess he’d forgotten about the scripture on the wall that read, "God is the head of this house." As you entered the living room, you couldn’t miss it, though I’m assuming he ignored it.

At the time, his behaviour didn’t really bother me; I was amused watching him stumble around, slurring his words. In fact, I was excited to see him because he never came home empty-handed; he always had a treat for us, usually something he had won in a card game. West Indian men back in the day were known for their love of gambling as a means to provide for their families, and Dad was no different. It didn’t matter if you didn’t have money, you could trade anything that had a monetary value, whether it was animal, mineral, vegetable or simply an IOU.

One evening, Dad come home late as usual. Much to my excitement, he came in the front door carrying a wooden blue cage with two snow-white turtle doves inside. I had never seen anything so beautiful; they looked like little angels. Me, my brothers and sister were so impressed with Dad’s winnings, we started excitedly discussing name choices, what to feed them and whose bed they should they sleep in first. Unfortunately for us, Mum got all superstitious, and while we were all sleeping, she got up in the middle of the night and released them from their captivity. In the morning we all came tumbling down the stairs as though it was Christmas Day, only to be presented with an empty cage. Confused and trembling, we asked Mum, Where are the birds? In a state of composure, Mum explained to us that she let them fly away. We just stood there with our jaws on the floor in disbelief.

As a working-class family, we never had much money. At times, I felt like Tiny Tim from the movie Scrooge, but, that said, our parents always ensured that we had a wholesome meal on the table and clean pyjamas. Christmases and birthdays were more about being grateful for being alive than getting a brand-new bike or the latest Xbox game. If I’m not mistaken, I do remember one year my mum bought my sister Leah a doll for her birthday. A black doll. I can still see the sheer look of horror on her face when she unwrapped her present. She absolutely hated it, mainly because all of her friends from school had the latest Barbie and not Brenda from the projects. She cried and cried and cried. She couldn’t stop. She cried while watching TV, she cried while eating her dinner, she went to bed crying, then woke up in the morning still crying, poor thing. I felt her pain, but it was also bloody hilarious. As for Brenda, we never saw her again. The last we heard; she was on remand awaiting trial for armed robbery.

My eldest brother nicknamed Tyboy, which was given to him when he was born. It literally means small boy’, which is the West Indian equivalent of junior. His real name is Phillip. He was born in Dominica, a small island in the Caribbean, which the locals call the Nature Island of the Caribbean because of its un-spoilt natural beauty. When he was nine years old, he had a severe epileptic fit, which left him mentally and physically disabled. Despite his disabilities, mainly speech and hearing defects, he was truly blessed with unique abilities. Besides having the strength of an ox, he had amazing concentration and attention to detail. He could complete a thousand-piece jigsaw quicker than you or I could spell it. Being of a creative mind, I remember him always carrying a penknife in his pocket, which had nothing to do with his thug nature; it was that he loved to carve shapes out of pieces of wood. Quietly he’d be carving away, and within days he would have made a swan or a farmyard animal. It was like living with your very own toy maker. I would sit in his bedroom for hours and watch him make a paper plane; after carefully folding a piece of paper several times, he would throw it gently and we’d watch it glide around the room until it landed on the floor. He found the whole process extremely entertaining and would just lie there and laugh to himself. His innocence and child-like behaviour was so captivating and remains the same to this day.

That said, Tyboy was one crazy fella. Being more of a child than an adult, he had a tendency of running away at any given chance. Carefully he would plan his exit route, waiting until our backs were turned, then quietly tiptoed out the front door and then he’d be off down the road like Forrest Gump. I have lost track of the number of hours we all spent looking for him. Endless times the police would find him wondering the streets, miles from home, only to bring him back. But he was more calculated in his escape plans than we gave him credit for. Being witness to him sitting in front of the typewriter Mum bought to stimulate his mind. I would watch him craftily design name tags on pieces of card, typing his name and address on them, spending extra time, carefully trimming the edges down to size to fit into his key ring. Little did I know that this was part of his great escape plan. He figured out that if he ever got lost, he would simply show his home made ID to the first copper that came along, with the hope of them bringing him back home and it worked like a dream.

One Saturday, while Mum was out shopping, she gave us strict instructions to keep an eye on him, but we had more important things to do, like playing hide and seek with our mates down the road. It wasn’t long before a neighbour informed me that they had just seen Tyboy at the top of the road and that he had been knocked down by a car. I was filled with panic, not only for Tyboy’s safety, but the thought of getting licks terrified me even more. Leah and I rushed to the top of the road. When we got there, there was no sign of him, so we asked a nearby shopkeeper if he had seen the accident. Confirming our worst fears, he told us that a car had hit him, and that he had just got up, dusted himself down and casually walked off. That’s Tyboy alright – strong as an ox, not even a car could put him down. I couldn’t believe it, when we eventually found him he was sitting in the living room, drinking tea at Mr. Lamont’s house, a dear friend of the family he would frequently visit. Mr. Lamont recently left us to be with the LORD; I miss him dearly, especially our little chats over a large glass of red.

My other brother, Dave, being two years older and not as challenging as Tyboy, he had his own thing going on. The biggest smile you have ever seen, with the cutest dimples; all you had to do was point a camera at him and say cheese, and that was it, he’d be showing off those pearly whites, which he loved to do. But let me tell you, he was blessed with an especially prominent forehead. I remember a weekend when Mum had planned for my brother and I to have our picture taken by a professional photographer. Mum had us both in matching woolly jumpers, with a thick-knitted neckline; the only difference was that mine was brown and his was blue. Being the youngest, Mum dressed me first, and how smart I looked with my new jumper, shorts, white socks and polished brown shoes. Mum then dressed my brother, firstly by putting on his jumper. Guiding his head through the knitted neckline, reaching just above his eyebrows, that’s when it got stuck. Mum was unable to move it in either direction. It was properly wedged around his forehead; he looked like a bride wearing a veil. It wasn’t long before panic set in and he began screaming. Frantically trying to get the jumper over his head, poor Dave screamed every time Mum yanked it.

Hearing all the commotion, Dad came to see what was going on. He took one look and said, I told you, the bwoy’s head is too big.

Finally, Mum managed to get it passed his ears by applying a small amount of Vaseline, leaving Dave with a red line across his forehead; he looked like a tennis player with one of those cool sweatbands. Nevertheless, the photoshoot was a huge success, Dave was able to show off his big grin, diverting the camera away from his red headband. Mum and Dad were enormously proud.

Then there’s my sister, Leah; with every fibre of my body I would say she is the coolest sister any little brother could ask for. Taking me under her wing, she would always look out for me. I followed her everywhere; whatever she was doing I wanted to be a part of it. Come to think of it, anything she would ask of me, I never said no. Like the time when I found her playing in the garden all by herself. Sitting next to her, I was curious what she was doing.

She was playing with some stones. Hey, Danny, do you want to see something cool? she said.

Err, yeah, what is it? I replied.

I was so excited; I was ready to explode. I watched as she carefully placed a small stone into her left nostril, then, covering up the other nostril with her finger, she blew as hard as she could. The stone catapulted out from her nose then across the floor. OMG, could my day get any better? That was amazing.

Do you want to try it, Danny? she asked.

Yes please, me, me, me have a go.

OK, let me find a stone for you.

She picked up one then passed it to me; instantly I noticed that the stone she gave me was bigger than the one she had, but, shrugging my shoulders, I didn’t question it. Following her instructions, I carefully inserted the brick – I mean stone – into my nostril.

Now, Danny, blow as hard as you can, she shouted.

OK.

Nothing happened, so I tried again and again. Still nothing, the stone was properly wedged in my nose. I could feel my bottom lip starting to quiver through fear.

Danny, don’t you dare cry, and you better not tell Mum or Dad that I told you to do it.

I won’t, Leah, but what am I going to do? I’m scared. Tears were steaming down my face and snot was building up behind the stone. I couldn’t breathe, so I ran off crying for my mummy.

Danny, tell Mum you did it yourself.

Staying loyal to my sister, I didn’t tell on her. Standing in front of my dad, looking up at his giant frame, I lifted my arms. Picking me up, he placed me on his shoulders and carried me all the way to our local surgery where they managed to remove the embedded stone. You would have thought that all that drama was enough to put me off from following my sister, but alas that was not the case.

Living in the seventies, one would be familiar with the words punching money in the meter. It took me a little while to understand what it meant, but basically our electric meter worked by inserting coins (50p) into it, which provided enough electricity until the bugger eventually ran out. Countless times Mum would be fixated on one of her favourite programs like Colombo and, just as it reached the whodunnit climax, the electricity would switch off, leaving us in complete darkness. The frustration of Mum would pour out in a string of cuss words until someone was able to find some money to punch. I was just glad that I wasn’t caught short having a poo in the outside toilet in the pitch black – another seventies mod con; maybe that’s why I was constipated for so many years. Anyway, every so often a man would come round to empty the meter of all its coins. Gathering around the kitchen table, in our pyjamas eagerly waiting for him to finish counting, keeping our fingers crossed that there would be some excess, which would only mean one thing: ‘sweeties’. I loved sweeties, so you can imagine my excitement when Leah shared a secret with me, that she knew how to open the electric meter box to get the money without anyone knowing, that way we didn’t have to wait for the man to come round. As crazy as it sounded, she was onto something, so I was all ears.

The electric meter was situated in a high level, wall mounted, wooden box, above the main entrance door. Because I had a knack for climbing, all I had to do was make my way up the wall while Leah, standing below, held the hatch of the box open with a broom handle.

Standing in the center of the hallway, I heard Leah’s famous last words before I began my ascent: Don’t worry, Danny, if you fall, I’ll catch you.

OK. Then I was scaling the wall like Spider-man.

Danny, when you get to the top, you’ll see a metal clip on the side of the box – just slide it towards you and the box will come out.

It was a bit finicky, but if I could just move it just a little more… Suddenly I lost my grip and was sent hurdling towards Leah. It was obvious that she had forgotten her promise about catching me. Letting go of the broom handle, she casually moved out of the way before I landed slap, bang on the floor. That’s when I heard a loud smash; when I looked up, to my horror, the broom handle had gone straight through the glazing to the front door, completely shattering it.

Holy shit, we’re in trouble, I said to myself.

I went straight into survival mode, grabbed my coat, then made my way to school. During lessons I couldn’t get what happened out of my mind.

It was only when during first break, whilst playing football in the playground, one of my mates tapped me on my shoulder. Hey, Danny, your mum’s at the gate, she asked me to get you.

Huh? I replied.

Your mum, she’s at the gate, he said, repeating himself.

Oh, that’s nice, yeah, Mummy, I said, trying to style it out.

Walking towards her, her gaze fixed on mine, she did not look happy. Trying to test the waters, I smiled at her – nothing, she gave me nothing back. OMG, please.

Hello, Mummy, I greeted her.

Standing there with her handbag firmly tucked under her arm and with taught, thin lips, she responded. You wait till you get home, she scorned.

With that she turned around and made her way back home. For the rest of the day I had the worst stomach-ache, thinking about what she said, and her tone. Children of today don’t know how lucky they are; we didn’t have things like Child-line back in the day. I was on my own and no one could help me. Scratching my head, the one thing I kept asking myself was, How did she know it was me?

Anyway, what would normally take fifteen minutes max to walk home from school, turned into forty-five minutes plus. Slowly placing my key into what was left of the front door, releasing the latch, I crept in. Suddenly I stopped, noticing a shadow in the kitchen, it was Mum.

Danny is that you? she cried out.

Yes, Mummy, I replied.

Quickly go upstairs and wash your hands – dinner will be ready in a moment.

Shocked and confused – maybe, just maybe, she’d forgotten all about it. I decided to play along and did as I was told. When I finished, I came back downstairs and sat at the dining table to eat my dinner. After dinner, still sitting at the table, I thought to myself that I’d go to my room, put my feet up maybe watch a bit of TV. BLAM! Turns out that she hadn’t forgotten.

As a young boy, I was one of those kids that always had a snotty nose. Don’t ask me why, but I would allow it to build up all day until it formed a dried crust on the outside of my nostrils – not a good look. Also, as a result of being born premature, I suffered from a weak immune system, which meant that I was often ill. If it wasn’t chickenpox, it was measles; and if it wasn’t measles it was mumps. Mum would always have to take time off work to take me to the doctors for something or the other, and to top it all,