Photo by Shapelined on Unsplash
Each week it was the same – the PE teacher would pick his captains for the football game and each week they were the same. It always struck me as odd, how the subject was called ‘Games’ when there was no fun in it at all for the fat and fumbling like me. Each week it was the same – the same sequence of names whittled down to me and Daniel though he was more desirable. Whichever captain who got me would scuff and stomp like a tup but he was stuck. Vice versa – there’s two sides to persona non grata. Teacher’s dead and time’s been called but I see those bright captains in town now and then – older, fatter, faded and all I cared about is my own goal.
Inventory of scars
Your skin is a map of where you’ve been and it’s tedious to boast but I must have hovered in harbour most of my life. I’ve only two silvery cicatrices, on my thumb. One gained as a pissed student slamming a beer bottle on the bar and it shearing. The other from a cheese cutter at a posh party put on by my snobby ex-in-laws. The scars are less than a centimetre apart – one a watermark of the wild old me who was nearly killed off by the other me, scarred by trying too hard to fit in.