I tell Boy Son that they’re simply called “Trees”
knowing that greater men have walked this path and reeled off names like Almus
Hybrid and Snowdrop and Flatspine Prickly*. I bet they had excellent posture and
puffed on pipes whilst quoting Kipling. The leaves however, they’re just leaves
& I take comfort in knowing that any man who deviated from this easiest of
descriptions must’ve been an absolute wibberwasher**. We push on. The yelling and thrilling of molly coddled children
plays softly in the foreground as my boots squelch to the rhythm of avoiding
puddles. I’m the forgotten warrior of the park, the man whose DNA once punched
out a Yak but I’ve boiled down to sipping lattes whilst side stepping my own
reflection. My DNA’s latest resurrection is having none of this and decides to
chant at the nameless trees, throwing dirt into their face before running
around each one, three times apiece. I secretly hope this crowd gathering
ritual will unlock a tree Genie who’s been waiting for this exact pattern to
unfold. ‘Finally I’m free! Thank you little boy. I thought the spell was broken
last week but the little fucker only ran around twice… Not to worry, I’m yours
forever. Lets grab dad and head to India. I’ve got a score to settle. To the
spices!’ I squinted my eyes and crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that
the oncoming floppy eared fuzz ball was in fact Mr Tree Genie himself. This
was stupid and I had to unpack my mind bags. India would have to wait.
Embarrassingly the futility of my squinting was highlighted by the sound of steamed
up piss falling on my pram. But oh how we all laughed… ‘The dog pissed on the man’s
pram… the inappropriateness of it all, that’s what makes it so amusing. Wibber,
wibber wibber.’ I shot them all with my mind vibes and they vaporised into the
kind of dust that only gathers onto broken dreams. Suckers. I sipped my latte
and pushed on.
Boy Son opened the gate and stood
mesmerised as fragments of the future ran around shooting each other with
sticks. I laughed at the realities of playground war; A twenty second ban if
you’re wounded, thirty if you die, forty if you die near family. These rules
played underneath a far more depressing conversation, ‘Darling not too close to
the edge you might fall.’ My parents would introduce me to the weekend by
firing me out of a cannon with half an apple and a slap on the arse yet still,
I’m a pale reflection of a Yak Puncher. Today’s darlings are shot well before
they can strap on their boots.
Up he climbed and down he slid for long
enough so that I might be considered a decent father. It’s 12 parts love and
adoration, 3 parts stifling boredom and 6 parts hiding the 3 parts. Today I did
it well. Tomorrow I don’t know? He may want details.
*Derived solely from Google; may not be the
trees in my park.
** Wibberwashers are jowly grown ups possessing
no sense of humour and often they sound like overly serious washing machines.
"It’s 12 parts love and adoration, 3 parts stifling boredom and 6 parts hiding the 3 parts." Love this.
ReplyDeleteAlso, is a Jeanie a Genie who wears denim?
Oh bugger I used the wrong Genie. I'm a terrible speller. I nearly cried when I found out I wasn't dyslexic. 'You mean I'm just a moron?' Well it's edited now so your comment may look out of place. But thanks for the tip and thanks for appreciating the 12 parts line.
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