I’ve always been fastidious but misunderstood as such when my fastidious nature was turned to unusual directions. When I was a child, I was caught between a dichotomy of being pleasing to adults in a childish fashion by way of promise and pleasing as an adult by way of being receptive to their world. I would spend my free and personal times trying to find love for maths, science, literature, and anything my child brain considered “high academia”. But at nights when I was taken to the pub by my early 70s parents, I learned another kind of impression I could hone. It’s left me slightly ajar of people my own age in a way that looks like pomposity and the refusal of things that give my generation identity, but really it’s a quite self-pitying vein of the loneliness I overcame unusually when I was young, and a coverable personality scar remains. I was, in the optimistic and earnest way that only children really can be, intent on being someone that adults could be comfortable around. This may have been from a push towards by my access to my parent’s friends or a push away from not having my own, or probably both, but it culminated in me learning to roll (but certainly not smoke) cigarettes at age 5 and develop a kind of outrageous comedy that straddles the line between charming and concerning in small children. I tried to keep it tuned to the audience, and struggled with the strange and expansive list of things adults liked and could relate to; Muffin the Mule, West Ham football club, Simon and Garfunkel, château neuf du pape (and speaking French for that matter), window shopping, Jeremy Corbyn and being told they look 30 (unless in the circumstances you’re supposed to say 20). All of this served to make the disillusionment of adults being omnipotent, benevolent, rich e.c.t. all the more sudden. I felt righteous in the wool being pulled off, and at the same time aware that the unwitting haze was something I would wish for just an ounce of once I was old enough. I was right.
Note from the author: Whether or not you know if I'm a first time writer or published author (not that that always guarantees quality), I would like some honest feedback, unlike that which you can receive from people who know you personally. Is there anything compelling or distracting about my writing style? Is the narrative honest, detached, touching or corny? Thanks in advance. K.