Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

GROWING UP
I was five and quite happily playing with my He-Man figures on the kitchen floor.
Skeletor had just stormed Castle Greyskull. Battlecat was trying to lead the fight back. All
the drama in the plastic world had to be cut short, even though it was reaching its climax.
Mum and Dad walked into the kitchen. Dad always seemed to tower over me. I'm never
going to be that big, I thought. Mum was holding a fair-sized cardboard box. She rested it
on the table where my two older sisters were sitting playing Monopoly. I'd been playing
before, but got bored after about five minutes. All I wanted to do was race the car around
the board, and build towns with the little plastic green and red buildings. This was met
with screams of ‘don’t, don't, don't’ from my sisters.
Stupid game, I thought.
‘There's something here in this box you just might like,’ Mum said gently.
Ooh presents, I thought and instantly shot to my feet. I stood eagerly on tiptoe. My
head wasn't much higher than the table edge. My sisters were peering at the box, less
enthusiastic, but certainly interested. I guess when you're a bit older you've seen a few
more boxes. I still couldn't see properly. I clumsily clambered onto the chair, knee first,
then swung my other leg round. I stood on the chair, now very satisfied with my bird's
eye view of the mysterious brown container. Dad took a careful hold of my shoulders, as I
stood proud. Mum slowly opened the flaps. My heart was thumping, anticipation
building.
I wish Mum would just hurry up, I thought. Opening...opening...the flaps were nearly
all the way...it's open!
In the box, cowering in the corner, was a little ginger kitten with huge tiger-like paws,
ears that seemed big enough for a fully-grown cat and a pure white belly.
‘Awwwww,’ my sisters yelped in unison, now more than interested.
‘Can we keep it?’ I cried.
Her name was Lindsey, Lindsey Porter. I was eleven and she was a year older. I had
become a bit of a cult hero with my mates because I was going out with an older woman.
The peak of our relationship was when we held hands on a shoe-buying expedition on a
wet Saturday afternoon in East Grinstead - not exactly romantic, but this was all going to
change. We were going to kiss - properly, tongues and everything! I had it all planned.
My parents were out; I'd invite her over. We'd sit down; I'd woo her with a bit of Michael
Jackson, then make my move. That was the plan, at least.
It all started so well. I phoned her and she was coming over. Game on. I got ready. I
put the Coca Cola on ice; I had a go at ironing my own shirt. Interesting results. I shaved
my top lip, borrowed some of Dad's aftershave and placed the Jacko tape carefully by the
stereo. Everything was set. I sat in the lounge, a little nervous, but quietly confident. Your
first kiss is a strange thing. Until it actually happens it's shrouded in mystery. When it
finally comes along, you are too busy making sure you follow every tip given in Just 17
to be able to be enjoy yourself. Unfortunately I couldn't even get past tip number one on
this occasion.
Lindsey was half an hour late. I remained rooted to my seat in the lounge, hands
between my knees, every so often looking at the clock. Then it happened. The doorbell
sounded. I raced to the hall.
‘Keep calm, keep calm,’ I whispered to myself. I opened the door with a strained
attempt to appear sophisticated and there she was, looking every bit as beautiful as she
did in my mind's eye.
‘Hello, sorry I'm late,’ she said sweetly.
‘That's ok, I....’ My sentence was cut short by the sheer horror of what I saw: the little
brother.
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