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I got a rare job. I'm not being paid for it, but at least it's work and they sent a cab for me. The cab went to pick me up from the drop off location and then had to come and pick me up from where I was, so I was late for the job. The man from the taxi firm rang me to say the car had got stuck in traffic, but the people who booked it said it had gone to the wrong place. Who was lying? The cab firm obviously.
I had woken up at 3.45am even though the cab wasn't getting to me until 7.30am. I couldn't get back to sleep not because I was excited to get back to work. This wasn't like waking up super early Christmas morning and being too excited to drop off again. It made me think about that though. There'd been one time back in Loughborough, so I was somewhere between the ages of 4 and 7, when me and my brother and sister were all awake at 4am, but had been told we couldn't go down til mum and dad were up. We were all super excited to see what Santa had brought us. I can't remember who did it, or if we all did, but one or more of us snuck down to the lounge to take one present each from our pillow cases. No one would notice that. I have a vague memory of it being me (it seems likely that they'd send me down so I'd get in trouble, but also I suppose be in less trouble given my age). I, or my brother or sister or all of us grabbed a small gift each and rushed back upstairs to unwrap it. I am pretty sure mine was a small figure of a Red Indian (I was not politically correct enough to call him a native American and the shops weren't politically correct enough to not sell an artefact). That year my dad had made me a fort to play with my little toy figures. It would be my main present. I loved it.
As I thought back to that morning I could absolutely feel the thrill and excitement I felt at the time. All of it was thrilling, the visit from Santa, the racially insensitive gift and the awful crime of stealing one of our presents early. I thought of that young version of myself and how happy he was, how excited, how pure of heart (aside from the disobeying his parents) and I couldn't have loved him more. It reminded me of James Acaster talking about taking care of the child he had been and enjoying Disneyland as an adult for that little boy version of himself.
Definitely at least 50 years has passed since that little boy clutched his illicit Red Indian waving its little plastic tomahawk. He was still there inside me somewhere, still delighted with himself, still thrilled by the world, believing all that he was told about magic, loving the world and his partners in this forgivable crime (the early opening of presents, not turning the suffering of Native Americans into toys where they were somehow the baddies).
I am more cynical and less innocent now. I've done a lot of selfish and thoughtless things. Mostly I think I am an OK person, but presumably everyone thinks that about themselves, even (and probably especially) the horrible arseholes. I felt glad that somewhere inside me, that tiny version of myself still exists, and that the warmth from that memory can still buzz through my heart.
I thought I must write a blog about this and then promptly forgot all about it. I knew this morning that I had something to write about, but could not remember what it was at all. I'd had this little profound moment and it had made me smile, made me sad that I am not as good as that little boy, made me glad to be alive. Then I'd totally forgotten the whole thing.
Three hours later I remembered it was something to do with childhood and very slowly the memory (of yesterday) finally returned, allowing me to write this blog. I clearly remember 50 years ago, but struggle to remember 24 hours ago. Anyway the story (and the dubious playthings of my childhood - we also had a golliwog by the way) survives.
For a while.
