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Super Blood Wolf

With ‘Space’ being the boy’s theme of the month, and his night with me coinciding with the lunar eclipse, I’d set up the evening: geared up for a 5am wake up so we could see it at its peak.

Before bed we watched footage of various planets through my projector – laid out on my bed as they filled the wall. With his shadow he would point out craters, genuinely gasping and speaking with hushed awe as they grew in size.

I used a rather ropey star-gazing app, with an unmuteable cosmic soundtrack, to see the constellations above the house. Of the few directly overhead, he took a liking to Taurus. One by one he would prepare the double-sided stickers on glow-in-the-dark stars and I would place them on his ceiling in accordance to their position in the night sky above. Laid down to sleep, I told him we would be up early to see the Super Blood Wolf Moon – the name being enough to secure his excitement.

At 2am I he calls out for me on the monitor. I dash upstairs to find him with his lamp on, sitting upright in bed wide-eyed: ‘Blood Moon!’ I explain that it’s a little early and take him down to my bed until it’s time.

At 5am I check outside and find the pale red moon over the tall silhouetted trees, and find the right vantage point. I wake the boy, excited but tired, and wrap him in one of my hoodies before carrying him outside. The full E.T look complete when he points to the moon.

‘Yeeeeeah look it’s red! Can I go to bed now?’

Yes. Yes you can.

 

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school

Recently, the boy’s mother and I finalised the top three school picks for September.

The number one slot went to a Scandi-utopian dreamschool that has child lead lessons and classes so small that he would get more focussed attention than he could possibly crave.

The gap between this and the second school is quite significant, considering that last year it failed it’s Ofsted Report when on the day of inspection an unqualified principal was standing-in whilst bullying was apparently omnipresent, one child even pushed down the stairs that day. So this is the fun choice, one to keep the boy on his toes like, which might give you some idea of our third pick…

That’s a little unfair. Since the incidents of above, the school was taken over by an academy and so there is a lot of funding being pumped in along with new personnel and close attention being paid to problems of the past.

Still, nothing on the nirvana of numer one.

Considering the criteria: that priority goes to children with relatives at the school, or if they have a challenging home setting, or proximity within the catchment area – it looks improbable that our boy genius will get to swan about reading poetry with his cohorts in option one.

This realisation was a little hard to take, and when Jman’s mother started to worry, I offered consolation by saying that it’s down to what we do with him anyway, the amount of information, attention and stimulation we can give him.

Within the week she had devised a plan, to make a theme for each month in which he would learn about a certain subject at home – theming activities, trips and even food to involve and educate. Learning about the north and South pole over Christmas, he will proudly list different species of penguins and their behaviours. Smarts that, paired with some training in basic gracie jujitsu, will at least make him Lord of the Flies in option two if it comes to it.

neighbourly

Having recently moved into the leafy suburbs with a couple of young lads, and hearing that the previous tenants were a bit of a nuisance, I was conscious of making a good impression on the neighbours.

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This was dashed somewhat when on a couple of occasions we had left our bins out at the end of the drive after the bin men had been and gone – and on one occasion they were left out for so long that someone returned them. A massive faux pas that makes us seem like teenagers left in a house while the parents are away. It could have been a gesture of good will, but I took it to be a passive aggressive move, a way of saying get your shit together without actually interfacing.

I’ve had bad experiences in the past. When I was 9 years old, my mother and I moved from East London to Surrey. Posh-seeming on the outside but just as subjected to Brazilification as anywhere else, as we landed on the edge of a rough council estate. To celebrate the move, and perhaps distract me from the anxiety of changing schools and friends and having only each other, my mum bought a couple of little fireworks: 10cm rockets on 30cm sticks. As it got dark, we went into our humble garden and set them off – but this was called off when our neighbours protested by throwing rocks over the fence. A charming induction, indicative of the drama that would follow.

I grew up in this house, a semi- detached terrace adjoined to speed freaks who would lift weights until the early hours of the morning. The sinewy witch who was the head of the household would be at the forefront of every confrontation if not pushing her henpecked husband to fight on her behalf. It only came to blows once, consisting of him holding my mothers shoulders, and her slapping my mother in the face. Evidently my council estate lacked the communal spirit that I seem so desperate to find.

Now I’m making every effort to be neighbourly. This morning, despite the miserable weather, I set out on my walk to work and seeing one of my neighbours pull out of her drive, I smiled and waved. I was down the road when she pulled over and asked if I would like a lift into town. This is it! This is what I have been craving. I politely decline, but continue on in the rain reassured by her kindness.

Just now I returned from work walking the same route home. Pitch black now, I see my housemate in his car outside the house – a Mini with a dinner-plate sized speedometer in the centre of the dashboard. Unmistakable. I bend at the waist and look in through the passenger window at the driver, I can barely see him in the darkness, in fact he looks uncannily like an elderly woman. Then the realisation sets in. I don’t quite know what to do and so try this morning’s trick – I smile and wave and keep on walking, past my front door because I’m embarrassed and don’t know what to do, which probably made me seem a lot creepier. I met two neighbours today, kind of, and made one good impression at least.

Ryuk

It was the little ones birthday pretty recently. My housemate Patryk, having spent much time with him and developed some affinity, wanted to get him something he would like and so opted for something a bit dark. A little cartoonish vinyl of a character from the show Deathnote. The character being a demonic God of Death who oversees the killing of a bunch of kids for his own amusement.

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Just in from work, whilst I was giving the boy his nightly dose of Dahl, Patryk knocked on his door and explained how, as a fan of anime and manga himself, he wanted to give him a gift that would combine their interests. To introduce him to something new, but keep it a bit freakish and weird.

Seeing the black lipped wide smile and the deranged look on it’s face he pulled it close and sat it on his lap whilst I finished our chapter. And as I was turning off the light to wish him goodnight, he stopped me so that he could carefully lay Ryuk under the bed to sleep.

Not checking to make sure there are no monsters, putting one there so that he could be certain.

homelessness

Our tenancy was almost up and so my housemate and I began to look for new accommodation to include another person. We had a good thing going but we could make it better, maybe. My requirements would be a big enough space to stow a child a couple times of week, but other than that – loosey goosey baby, loosey goosey.

That said, as the time pressed closer and we still hadn’t found anything, I start to panic. Usually quite a happy-go-lucky optimist, I became emotionally wobbly at one point, which made me realise that I was afraid of something.

Begin a one week countdown until I’m homeless. I need something, a plan at least. I reach out to people for advice and temporary solutions. My new potential housemate says that he could put me up for as long as needed, and could even take on the boy. A beautifully kind gesture, but I still felt uneasy and anxious.

An unusually robotic personality, driven by logic in the same ways as Dr. Spock and Data, he asks why I am so stressed, what is it specifically that is bothering me so much, considering there is now a fix.

I pause for a moment and then begin to verbalise feelings and thoughts that I didn’t know I had, straight from my subconscious: that if I were to be staying at someones house, with all my belongings in tow or in storage, and I didn’t have a date for when I’d have my shit together, I would feel embarrassed. And then to have to bring a child to this home of someone else, I’d be mortified. I would feel like a failure to those around me, but more importantly, a failure to my son.

He looks at me, nods his head and says ‘Yeah, fair enough’ and walks off.

I know he doesn’t mean anything by this – his aim wasn’t to console me, merely to understand, and now he does, leaving me to sit and stew with this confession. Now I am able to acknowledge and better deal with the problems ahead, realising where my anxieties lie, all thanks to my autistic guru and new housemate.

barber

It would take two people complimenting me on my unshaved face to embrace the fact that I would now be actively trying to grow a beard. Granted these people were also young men with stubble of their own, itchy-backed and seeking reciprocity, and technically my employees so they could just be taking the piss, but this was the excuse I needed.

Self-conscious of the empty space that eats into the growth on my cheeks but mostly the one patch under my chin (bothering me enough to write about it at length), I had been told that to fill in these fleshy voids of masculinity I would simply need to go feral and not shave at all. More piss taking perhaps, but in for a penny in for a pound.

Not very flattering images above, but please remember the words of Orson Welles who said that: “part of the reason for the ugliness of adults, in a child’s eyes, is that the child is usually looking upward, and few faces are at their best when seen from below.” And remember too the words of my 3 Mobile Upgrade Consultant who, when speaking of my Samsung J3 (2016) said “The front camera is 5 megapixels, which means it’s a bad camera”. But enough vanity, and onto this beard that I so keenly need to preen.

I let it grow wild and wiry, poking out in all directions from my face, which is hairy enough as it is. When it gets a bit much I trim away at my neck but leave my cheeks and chin. For some reason it doesn’t look normal. Alas, I am in need of a haircut and so I head to my barbers, whom I now trust deeply. The Turkish chaps here know how to deal with dark hair, trimming below the neck of my t-shirt where others would not, throwing fire at my ears like a fucking exorcism. It feels legit.

When the guy sees my attempt at a beard, he asks what I want done with it. I want to grow it. He gives an avuncular nod and equips himself with a small set of clippers. He hacks away and creates a neckline across my throat, traces it with his finger and says that this is where I need to shave, that it will allow the hair to get some volume and make it less lop-sided on my face. He says all of this in a slightly hushed tone, as though he doesn’t want to embarrass me, which I fully appreciate but it does make the words sting a little. I clearly don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

Onto my sideburns, he trims them down to the corner of my jaw and then in another bout of barberly advice leans in and says that I need to keep this part from growing too much, that it won’t gather, it’ll crawl out and “look like pubes”. I feel like a teenager, with this surrogate barber giving advice that will stop me from getting bullied at school.

I leave the barbers enlightened, and keep up the practice – trimming a neckline and keeping the pubes from the corners of my face. In a matter of weeks the patch has vanished. I plan to keep it going until my entire face is covered. Teen Wolf Ahoy.

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strip

After another night of exceptional food and Jazz, we find ourselves in the horribly overpopulated strip of tacky bars on New Orleans’ Bourbon Street. The group want to head back but I declare that I want to find a dive bar: somewhere out the way, equally disgusting but intimate. A cosy kind of hideous. Unsurprisingly most prefer the alternative of sleep.

My offer is taken up by one but I soon realise that he has his own agenda and one stubby can later, in a quiet bar not nearly dingy enough, we head straight on to a different kind of establishment. This was my first visit to a strip club and I hadn’t anticipated it so after the entrance fee I’m left with a 20 in my wallet. Now this may be my first rodeo but I know I need smaller bills and so I buy us a couple of beers, leaving me with two dollars to play with. Best make em last.

I’m given a little walk-through tutorial, shadowing my friend as he takes me to a chair around one of the raised stages, a black marble island pierced by a golden pole. He throws a dollar out in front of us, I follow suit placing half of my total purse beside it. The woman on stage isn’t so much dancing as working around the spectators and fucking the air in front of them. She is topless, wearing heels and a thong. I’m not so much as turned on as uncomfortable but trying to project otherwise; casual and familiar.

As she arrives at our two dollar ‘pile’ she leans in and asks where we’re from. England. I didn’t know conversation was part of the deal and so I decide to take the lead and return the question. The Czech Republic. Master conversationist in my element, I hold her gaze and shout loud enough as to be heard above the music “…My favourite author’s Czech, have you read any Kafka?” She doesn’t reply, just drifts off into the crowd. Perhaps she’s more of a Čapek kinda girl.

One of the dancers walks up beside us, silently climbs up on the stage and then just keeps climbing. She gets to the top of the pole, about 10 feet off of the ground, and holds for a second before letting herself fall. She lands with her legs split apart, her thick plastic heels smash against the ground with a reverberating crack. If she didn’t have your attention before, she has it now. I’m not so much as turned on as appreciating her athletic ability and showmanship. Now this is I can get behind. I place the last of my cash out in front of me and when she happens upon it, she picks it up, folds a crease lengthways along the bill and drops it back down. She leaves a dramatic pause before dropping over ol George and picking him up betwixt her cheeks.

Now that I’m tapped out, my advising cohort takes the lead once more. Between stages there is a large red carpeted staircase leading up to the balcony – shielded from view and manned by security. The second level. My friend talks to a petite blond, gives her some cash and she takes me by the hand and leads me up the stairs and through security. She sits me in a walled off vestibule, sets my drink down and introduces herself. Lolita. “I love that novel, have you read any Nabakov?” I’m really getting the hang of this.

Then I get my private dance, I smile politely and awkwardly. Not so much turned on as fulfilling my part of the deal as an audience member. I want to be respectful and encouraging despite my discomfort and so I end up nodding congratulations at each of her moves like a parent asked by their kid to watch as it jumps into the pool in varying ways. My faux-enthusiasm is wearing thin but I don’t think she could give a fuck – not really striking me as the shy and sensitive type as she hits her tits against my face. When we’re done she hands my beer back to me and makes a point of thanking me, for being so polite.

As I walk down the red-carpeted stairs, back into the riff-raff of level 1, the ground dwellers, I think about what Lolita meant. Perhaps there was a sadness beneath her words, that others are abusive or inconsiderate, but her tone just makes me think: I was doing it wrong. Next time I’ll come prepared, or better yet I won’t come at all.