The original version 1 of this written in May 2013, was only the second piece I’d written at that stage. Everything on this page, “It started in the kitchen”, has it’s creative genesis in April / May 2013’s breaching of whatever emotional dam was broken to allow words to begin to not just flow but to be captured. The second part isn’t possible without the first, the flow. But unless the words are caught and kept there’s no real understanding of the emotions they represent. Sometimes being able to put them down and come back to them is like having turned the gas off under an internal pan that’s been boiling over far too long.
One element at play was a close family bereavement at the years beginning, but that was only one element. The couple of years prior to that had been characterised by emotional turmoil. Long term counselling that had helped in the reassembling of the ‘Self’ was on reflection a major catalyst in what has now become this page.
As to this piece, when I showed it to a good friend in the August or September of ’13 she wasn’t comfortable with it. She said I needed to change it because, although she knew my history well enough to know my father was the central character, she worried it gave the impression that it was my own character to someone reading it who didn’t know me. I can’t thank her enough for that input, but I’ve not seen any way to work that out. I think it’s too close to be possible.
The events in this are fictional the character whose voice is portrayed, my fathers, is not. Read it or not, as with everything ever published, the choice is the potential readers. This is my way, in part, of exorcising now long dead ghosts.
Get moving ya daft bat get outta the cab,
You can talk to me while ya walking,
I’m buying you lunch not his holiday in France,
This is no time to swap life stories,
Mon take the hint you fat arsed bint,
I’m not paying if the menu hits full price,
Now don’t you dare, trip over that lip,
Or you’ll be getting just what for,
Mind now and smile at least for a while,
You’re supposed to be having a good time,
Don’t show me a trace of your greeting face,
What the fuck do you have to be upset for,
Twenty five years of your bloody tears,
And your wee English bastards bleeting,
Think you’ve had it bad, your life’s been hard,
Thank god my daughter was born here.
Just let me say if you carry on that way,
There’ll be no Happy Anniversary.
(c) Jim Laing 2013/14.