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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Just a first trial chunk tell me its rubbish if you like!!

Chapter 1 (v.1) - The beginning

Submitted: February 12, 2019

Reads: 67

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Submitted: February 12, 2019



As I start this book at 13.29 on the 12/02/2019 I have spent the last 2 hours on the internet looking for some sort of pill that will put a smile back on my face. The last few days have been torture and the last few months much the same. It's hard to know where to turn. My direction so I looked at pills such as Lithium and Prozac antidepressant ns things like that. Amazingly what should I find but people who are Epileptic are 30% more likely to be on or in need of antidepressants and yet the medication that is within an antidepressant increases the likely hood of having a seizure. This puts my happiness on the back burner as having a seizure would mean my driving license is revoked. So I thought to fuck it I'm gonna start writing and see what happens. It could cheer me up you never know!!

Growing up in a family of five being the middle child with two sisters is something that is hard fought. The older being the obviously bossy one with a self-righteous attitude that went on for as long as I Can remember, could she have been born with it (therefore before anything else she was an enemy) !! My little sister, I may have turned here into what I wished as she grew or perhaps she just found me a hell of a lot more interesting than the high and mighty. After all, all I ever wanted was a laugh and a good time which has gotta be more interesting and noble then grassing people up. My eldest sister was Victoria (the evil dictator) who rendered herself a loner and friendless where the family was concerned and my younger sister Nicola( the playful tom girl) and through most of my childhood until the age of 13 would have been my strongest friend and only confidant. We were two peas in a pod.

My Mother was a Physiotherapist travelling here and there to move peoples limbs in certain fashions and bollock them for not doing their exercises which she now tells me she was never sure if they had done them or not. She was a hard working lady but in order to write a story with substance and relatable content, I must tell the truth. Although she worked she did not when it came to a marriage or a house, from a very young age I remember us living in an extremely untidy house with clothes scattered all over toys spread from top to bottom and room to room and thick layers of dust all over the house. If we went outside it was tall grass tools bikes buckets with mosquito eggs and larvae in that as children we found disgusting but incredible fun even though the water was thick with algae that stunk like rotten eggs, in a child's mind you could picture the larvae as a sort of dinosaur with its limited movements but ancient-looking attributes. The thing is I am sure there was a number of houses looked like this, no doubt, I distinctly remember our mother hysterically screaming at us to do some tidying up instead of making a mess the entire time, I feel the emphasis on the actions she was trying to use to get us to pay attention may have been a little understated. She would go crazy so so crazy it would hurt our ears so much so we would look at each other in wonder and amusement which would end up in a smile and a giggle even Victoria would join in, cos even though she was a grass and liked to pretend she was a goody two shoes she also needed to try and obtain some respect from us here felloe piers at the time, so she had to show an evil streak, in many ways this dishonesty and two-faced personality of hers is what annoyed us the most.

The mothers hysterical onslaught hardly ever bought us up out of our slumber in front of cartoons to help but if it did do it would be to sneak out of the sun lounge doors into the back garden to find something more interesting to do rather then listen to a berserk old crow or tidy up the mess we had made but was obviously not our job to clear up! It was only if the Father was mentioned that would send a shiver through our bones and result in a rise to give a half-hearted hand to a struggling mother and wife. I still wonder if she had approached in a gentler kinder fashion would she have had the desired effect on her children but I guess when that deep in her own distress the last thing on her mind would have been to sit down have a cup and tea and gently ask her children to help with the tidy up.

This was not a daily 0ccurance the house would be left in a state for a week or two and with both parents in full-time employment there was no time for either of them to claim some time on their own to get the house up to a point where it needed to be to give us a chance to relax. I remember something my father used to say ‘i swear there's a void in this house’ Or its slipped into the void. He would always say this with a grin on his face even though he was fucked off with the fact that something for no particular reason had sli[pped into an unknown gap in the universe that happened to be inside our house. Not sure my Mother found it particularly funny but for us kids, it kinda meant he`d given up having a tormented stressful look for it and wished for us to get on with whatever we were doing in having fun rather than hating the world.

Although fearful of him, my father the craft design and technology teacher of a private school was a very funny and friendly man. He devoted himself to his job during the term time and then tried to turn most of his attention to his children during our school holidays. This basically means we were running amuck at home whilst he was working late at the school and obviously my mother would end up taking the blame for the state of us and the house at the end of the day. He was, in general, a grumpy man as a child I remember being very weary of whether to approach him with anything even for a hug due to his deep thought and addled mind the one time I was always sure would be ok on the approach was when I could smell second-hand smoke. He smokes maybe 20 a day and would sit at the kitchen table for hours in the summer drinking hot strong coffee with his shirt off and his man boobs hanging while chuffing on a roll-up or Rothmans. As kids in those days, we didn't care we just loved him for all his coffee stains, extra rolls of fat and second-hand smoke. In the evening the coffee would morph into two fingers of Pernod with orange juice!

Although not the poorest of families we were by no means well off although some may have been lead to think so. My parents had bought a run down old townhouse from what I can remember carpets so old and dusty a big crack up the side of the outside wall a massive falling down greenhouse they had a 4 bedroom house but only 2 of the bedrooms were useable to they had on and the 3 of us were put all together in the next room. The whole house was freezing cold and wrecked from the last owners but my father is the businessman and artist-designer that he was got a good deal on a basically gutted house with the glorified image of him and his wife getting properly stuck in and fixing the pace up into a palace.

My father came from very meagre beginnings, his mother was a hard-nosed Irish woman who was at 13 up with the tides every morning fishing for mackerel then boating over to the strand to sell her catch.they were typical of a family back in those days loads of children, some blind, some deaf and nowhere near enough money to look after them all, I think there only saving grace was that somehow they had acquired a house so they all had a roof over their head. A story from my day comes to mind, 2 actually where he once came home from the pub in Ireland late at night in the dark came through the front gate and tripped over something only to be shouted at by whatever it was. It was his blind Uncle Tom gardening at midnight in the pitch black. He promptly apologised and my dad asked him what on earth he was doing out here. He told him it made no difference to him hat time of day it was he couldn't see a bloody thin anyway!! This same uncle Tom also had a large callous coating his right little finger which as my father grew up watching him found that he got it from when he was smoking cigarettes next to the fireplace he would stick out his finger to touch the grate to find out where to chuck his fag end this had resulted in the grate burning his finger and forming a constant scar.



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