A pain in the side is a pain in the neck or a pain inside

Just typical, I awoke to today with some pain in my side that has got progressively worse as the day has gone on. I hope it doesn’t come to anything. I can’t bear to think of having to pull out of our final gig. I’m not saying it’s that bad at the moment but it’s sort of neurotic anxiety that goes through my mind at times like these when so much has been arranged and so much work has gone into preparing for this.

It could be psychosomatic I suppose but it could be something real hurting too. I don’t know, I’ll just have to see if it’s any better tomorrow. I’m taking Ibuprofen at the moment to take the pain away.

I spent the day today at a multicultural celebration day. It was held to celebrate the diverse make up of Harlow and it was real fun being with Chinese, African and pale skin families enjoying watching their children having the time of their lives under a recently parked African sun. Rosa is nearly five and asked this boy why he sp sp sp sp speaks lik like thththis, before I could chide her for asking such a personal question, the boy replied “It’s called a stutter and sometimes my mind is running faster than my mouth and it doesn’t come out properly”. “Oh?” Rosa said. Children ask such direct questions sometimes.
Yesterday she asked, “Daddy, are you the boss of your band?” I answered, “yes I am” and then she said, “Is that because you have the best voice in the whole wild world”. I replied “I would love think that was the case.” Which was my way of saying neither yes or no.

I got away with it she was satisfied with that response.

1963

Other acts of violence? Well another time he pulled my trousers down and took off his belt to strike me with it, but he didn’t.

I remember my mum hitting me, I remember the very piece of pavement I stood on. It was at the back of the rent office in Bush Fair as we were climbing the hill to go home after I had ‘helped’ her with her shopping chores. I was playing up for some reason, as you do, and I turned round to her and told her to ‘Fuck Off’. It was the first time I used a profanity against her and I was rewarded with a very hard slap across the back of the legs. Ouch!

As a father now I await the fateful day when my lovely daughter Rosa turns into a malevolent teenager and crosses that line in the sand. I’m sure it is inevitable. But I never want to hit her, because I know now that If I do, I would have failed. I’m not saying I think my mum was wrong to give me that slap but I do not want to become my parents.

I want to be me,

I want my path to be different.

If there was more violence in the family, I don’t remember it, that doesn’t really mean it didn’t happen, I must have received more smacks than that one. But if I cannot remember any others, then the level of it must have been small or at least manageable
Or, it was so traumatic that I have buried it in my memory, but I don’t think so. I don’t recall much evidence of that from conversations with my sisters but when we meet up we tend not to use that precious time going over past traumas. Perhaps there is another reason for that, I could ask, but should I?

I may regret where that might lead.