Just after the previous blog, about the B&B, I was accosted by My Teenage Self. “I’m disgusted with you.” he growled. “Are you listening?” he squeaked.
“Haven’t I warned you about staying in B&Bs? For a start, they’re unhealthy. They infect you with middle-class values. I bet you were in bed by 11.30. Keeping the neighbouring rooms up with never-ending trips to the toilet.”
“You’re always going on at me,” I said. “It’s not fair. Look – I’m quiet!”
“Oh yeah?” sneered My Teenage Self. “I’ve heard you on that hoover. And there’s the constant clink of washing up. You’ve really really let me down”
I could see his pain was real – he was engaged in pulling a nit from his forelock. “Clean plates….what’s happened to your values? Like supporting all living things and being decent to wild life. A sterile kitchen. That’s pure athemena”
“I think you mean anathema” I muttered.
“Show me some respect!” he yelled. “And there’s more. I’ve heard you’ve started being polite to policemen. Next thing I know, you’ll actually be voting….”
“As a matter of fact….”
“I don’t want to know! And when are you going to dress properly?” He dangled out a pair of diamond patterned socks in front of my nose.
“You’ve been snooping in my drawers again!” I yelled. But I knew that he’d got me.
“Just look at you. Always wearing a shirt. And I caught you last night, creeping downstairs to iron your jeans. And what’s with all this short hair? Kuh! Next thing you’ll be chatting to the neighbours as you mow the lawn.”
“No lawn. This is a flat.”
He gave me a look of pure, pained betrayal.
“Oh, that’s great, that is. So where the hell am I supposed to roll around and drink cider?”
I felt better. I may have learnt absolutely nothing in life. But at least I no longer drink cider.