- Joined
- Jul 10, 2015
- Messages
- 12
Our childhood holidays were often taken in a seaside town in Devon. The laborious four-hundred mile car journey southwards tests the patience of anyone. Then throw four squabbling children into the mix, and you have a melting-pot of certain insanity. However, our mother had a trick up her sleeve. Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls would always be at hand – the unfortunately appellated hard-boiled sweets made in our hometown. Traditionally taken down with us as a gift for our nostalgic aunty.
Upon arriving at our aunty's house - because I was the eldest sibling (always a tenuous reason) - I was given a bedroom to myself. That night I lay there in the dark, unable to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was my uniquely irritating little brother’s face looking back at me. A scenario in which I would have normally either just left the room or hit him. Or hit him and then left the room. But there he was – his annoying visage intermittently pulsing on and off the back of my eyelids.
I simply couldn’t take it anymore.
He was in the next room, which he was sharing with our cousin.
So I went to go and hit him.
The landing light had been left on, and I as I opened the door, the gradual widening of the shaft of light elucidated more and more of the scene. The Red Dwarf, Super Mario and Thunderbirds posters that adorned the walls each took their turn in revealing themselves. And on the floor lay my brother.
Helplessly gasping in a fit of suffocation.
He had fallen asleep with an Uncle Joe’s Mint Ball in his mouth.
* * *
“Where’s your sister?” Asked my mother upon coming downstairs. She was ashen and shaking.
“What’s wrong?” I replied.
“I’ve just had the most awful dream. Your sister and her boyfriend were lying trapped in a heap of rubble. They were covered in concrete and bleeding.”
I sat down. I was ashen and shaking.
“What’s wrong?” Asked my mother.
I pointed towards the TV.
“She’s gone into Manchester.” I replied. “And the IRA have bombed the Arndale Centre.”
We spent the day standing at the large lounge window, our heads veiled by net curtains as we peered down our road, desperately willing them to appear. The news said there hadn’t been any fatalities.
Then there they were. Hand-in-hand, sauntering towards us. We ran down the street to greet them. They were bewildered. They hadn’t even heard about the bomb. They’d missed the train.
At exactly the same time that my mother was having her dream.
***
Also, will just add now that last night I dreamt the Pope died.
Upon arriving at our aunty's house - because I was the eldest sibling (always a tenuous reason) - I was given a bedroom to myself. That night I lay there in the dark, unable to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was my uniquely irritating little brother’s face looking back at me. A scenario in which I would have normally either just left the room or hit him. Or hit him and then left the room. But there he was – his annoying visage intermittently pulsing on and off the back of my eyelids.
I simply couldn’t take it anymore.
He was in the next room, which he was sharing with our cousin.
So I went to go and hit him.
The landing light had been left on, and I as I opened the door, the gradual widening of the shaft of light elucidated more and more of the scene. The Red Dwarf, Super Mario and Thunderbirds posters that adorned the walls each took their turn in revealing themselves. And on the floor lay my brother.
Helplessly gasping in a fit of suffocation.
He had fallen asleep with an Uncle Joe’s Mint Ball in his mouth.
* * *
“Where’s your sister?” Asked my mother upon coming downstairs. She was ashen and shaking.
“What’s wrong?” I replied.
“I’ve just had the most awful dream. Your sister and her boyfriend were lying trapped in a heap of rubble. They were covered in concrete and bleeding.”
I sat down. I was ashen and shaking.
“What’s wrong?” Asked my mother.
I pointed towards the TV.
“She’s gone into Manchester.” I replied. “And the IRA have bombed the Arndale Centre.”
We spent the day standing at the large lounge window, our heads veiled by net curtains as we peered down our road, desperately willing them to appear. The news said there hadn’t been any fatalities.
Then there they were. Hand-in-hand, sauntering towards us. We ran down the street to greet them. They were bewildered. They hadn’t even heard about the bomb. They’d missed the train.
At exactly the same time that my mother was having her dream.
***
Also, will just add now that last night I dreamt the Pope died.