Yesterday, whilst rifling through the dusty box of childhood memories that I store under my bed, I found a dog-eared envelope, home, for god-knows-how-many-years, to a yellowing piece of carefully folded paper.

Proficiently typed upon the yellowing piece of carefully folded paper was a story.

A story crafted by a very young me.

Points of interest:

  1. Overall, I think my grammar and spelling is highly proficient for a young un’. Just sayin’.
  2. The main character Owen, is called Owen Owen. Which is awesome! And slightly odd.
  3. Ellen Owen wanted to buy a hen from the petshop. I don’t think I have ever witnessed the selling of poultry in a petshop. Why my young self chose a hen as Ellen’s desired pet, is a mystery to me. Why not a hamster? Or a kitten? I do have an inkling, however, that I wrote this story around the time that I was obsessed with the idea of keeping chickens in the backyard. This particular plan was continuously thwarted in its infancy by my cruel and inconsiderate parents. Clearly, I was articulating, in an extremely passive aggressive manner, the extreme annoyance I felt towards my parents’ decision, by highlighting the fact that Owen Owen’s Mum allowed Ellen to have a hen. “Fuck you, Mum and Dad”, is basically what I was attempting to convey.
  4. Continuing point 3; Owen Owen’s Father obviously shared the same opinion as my own Father about having a hen as a pet. So they had to wait until he died until they could have one. Freud would totally love this.
  5. I chose the rather middle-class character names of Ellen, Hughie, Owen and Tom.
  6. I hail from working-class roots and my friends had names like Shelley, Daz and Tracey.
  7. An elephant?
  8. An ELEPHANT? I wish I still possessed such a colourful and animated imagination. Life would be far more interesting.
  9. “People were whipping and jumping about”. I LOVE this choice of verb. Such a scene setter. Chapeau to me.
  10. The police lady, Joan Ald was clearly a very accomplished and capable woman. Unlike the foolish and dim-witted General Bellow, who couldn’t get his shit together. Nice to see that my opinion of women being the higher race had already started to form in my innocent mind.
  11. Never one for writing a rousing conclusion, I end the story, and subsequently this blog post with “but then they had to go to bed”.