HEAVY DISCIPLINE

Childishness...

I’ve never really felt childish, perhaps in the very same way I’ve never felt adult.  Looking back, childhood was all a blur.  True, there were one or too glorious highs, and a few more glorious lows, but now both are the same; just another useless memory to gloss over with wave and wave of sentiment, pathos for pathos’ sake.

This isn’t to say my teenage years weren’t without highlight.  Once, during the inevitably weary early hours walk home from a Cambridgeshire club, my then best friend stole tomorrow’s milk from a roadside porch.  He threw it on the road and the bottle burst white, reflecting the stars over the repeated tidal ripples of tiresome April rain. It was sad, but when I was fourteen I dropped a full milk bottle on my right foot at 7am and I couldn’t play football for three long weeks.

And that’s my point.  Because considering everything, I suppose I should feel glad that as I look towards my twenties the only thing masquerading as regret is that I didn’t appreciate the Ramones as much as we all possible could…

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