Trouble

I still think about the first times that I got into trouble - either at school or at home. I wonder why this is? Is it about not wanting to be criticised or is it just about wanting to be good and to do well??

Kids clearly thought of me as someone who didn't tend to get into trouble - because I can remember the startled reactions from when I did. I was told off in assembly once by the fearsome headmistress (I think I was talking when I shouldn't have been) and the joy that this provoked in a certain individual who was always getting ticked off by teachers still rings in my ears. Even though I would dress my naughtiness up (as I do now) with a smile and a dose of charm, I would still get told, every now and then, that I was stepping over the line. Indeed, a school report at the age of 10 warned against the dangers of over-confidence and arrogance. Not knowing what either term meant, my brother happily filled me in - "it means you're a cocky little squirt". I was so upset that I was told that I could rent a video of my choice for the evening. I chose the film "Fame".

I remember being given an enormous telling off for stealing an After Eight Mint. And I remember, most notably, being smacked for upsetting my brother. He was struggling through a piece of music - I think it was a depiction, for piano, of Robin Hood and his Merry Men - and I commented to the room that I thought it interesting that he was still working on this piece after quite some time. Little did I know, that the struggle next door was causing him significant pain and anxiety and my comment pushed him over the edge with the shout - "we can't all be f**king Liberace"! A smack and a slap I got for that.

Dad

So - to complete the picture. I've already mentioned the plywood fort offering and of course the golfclubs moment. But the majority of my dad memories are something like this.

My brother's O Level results. I clearly remember that Dad kept on going back to the sideboard, where the results slip was perched against the clock. He'd keep going back and he'd pick up the slip and smile. Clearly so pleased. Clearly so proud. They were, admittedly, very good results.

My GCSE results. My mum suggested that I call him to tell him my results. They were, admittedly, very good results. "Is that what you were hoping for?" was the response.

"How do you spell [such-and-such]"? "How do you think it's spelt?"

A crashing smack on the backside for (I thought) innocently questioning the fact that my brother was still playing the same piece in his piano lessons that he had been for months. The result was not only the said smack but also a tearful appearance, from around the corner, and the proclamation that "we can't all be f**king Liberace". No smack for the swearing - or for the suggestion that Liberace was the epitome of pianistic excellence. It was the 70s after all.

Sitting on the ottomon, watching his back as he shaved. Waiting for the moment when he'd splash water on his face, rub his face with the towel, and quickly turn around, roaring like a monster.

Screams of delight.