Monday, 31 May 2010

I've been thinking recently, if you class recently as the last three years, that I'm just not that popular any more. Or maybe I am, its quite subjective.

When I was younger, two or maybe three (judging by photographs) I was quite popular. But then, we were part of a baby boom. Every birthday my mother would bake a cake usually with a cartoon character on it or it would be the shape of a football, or other very manly straight thing. And people, some fat, some still in nappies, some people who I didn't even like, would come around and wish us happy birthday.And eat my cake and make a big deal out of me.

And during the summers, kids could come and play in our garden. Or my brother and I would go to the orchard, there were always people we knew there. We'd spend hours running across farmlands, shooting, fishing, playing cricket. As time went on, I can't say things changed much, nothing really does where my family are from. We discovered other towns and other people, but still remained popular. Perhaps because of our family status? After all we were in fathers jurisdiction.

At highschool there was a slump, perhaps for a year or two, but I was also tagged as the nice boy, the popular, yet not cocky boy. Which often resulted in my having the 'new kids' attached to me. Popular and successful, I guess is a win win situation. I remember my first fight, and how I sort out my brother, and how he turned around and told me to deal with it. Whilst I stood there, helpless, bleeding.

By the time I reached college, my brother and I has grown apart. He studied away from home and I did not. And for some reason, I remember filtering my way through the people at highschool stripping away all the fake things you're conditioned to do. Like stay in contact, pretend to care when someone has a child, meet people. Instead I kept a few close friends. There was one, Ethan. He got heavily involved in drugs, but I'd follow him to the ends of the earth. And I suppose at the time, he was a crush. And he'd tell me the horrible things people do for drugs, and the things he'd seen, and I'd give him money, and food, and we'd spend days trying to bring his work up to standard, or chatting about stuff that didn't matter. Eventually we grew apart. Our entire group did. We all went separate ways. I to Brighton, others to Bournemouth and Bristol. And we lost touch.

And when I moved here, in my mind I drew a picture. Friends coming and going, people always visiting, no need to create new relationships. And real life never turns out like that. And there must be about two of us left now. And even fewer who are in regular contact. And no one calls any more. Sometimes we look at each others facebook. It's all very distant.


Tim in the City of Angles said...

Are you saying that it would be nice if things never changed? I guess it would make life simpler, but also boring. I find the idea of being born and dying in the same bed while never traveling more than 20 miles from that bed incredibly stifling. But then, maybe I've spent the last 40+ years trying to run away from myself.

You're still popular, Toughie. It's just not as condensed as it use to be

Roop said...

I think this is a lovely post. I've been trying to think of something to add to it, some comment to make that would be both apt and amusing, but I can't. So I'll just wallow in the melancholy instead.