When I was a kid, I used to fantasise all the time about running away from home.
I can remember as early as 5 years old, waking up early and climbing out the bedroom window with a little bag containing a spare pair of pants and a toothbrush. Fortunately we lived in a bungalow. I would run away to Mr and Mrs Holden next door, a retired couple who would cook me egg on toast, pour me a drink of milk from the jug that was shaped like a cow, and keep me entertained until 8am.
I stowed away once in the back of the laundry van, hidden under the sheets. I got as far as Jacques Hair Salon, where mum had her interminable perms, before I was spotted and taken home for a good hiding.
She got so fed up with this lark that she packed a suitcase for me, took me in the car to the big Dr Barnados children’s home in Westcliff on Sea and turfed me out at the end of the drive. As I tripped off merrily with a spring in my step towards my new friends and kindly matron in the big house, she had second thoughts and yanked me back into the car. Home again for another good hiding. Funny how that low-level violence meted out so casually made not one bit of difference to our behaviour. I can never remember deciding not to do something in case I got a smack.
(I’ve a good mind to reintroduce smacking as part of my new upcoming totalitarian regime).
When I was older, I still hated living at home. However a couple of meaningful chats with my headmaster at school and a drive down the Cambridge Backs with the daffodils in full spring glory showed me there was a smarter option than living rough mainlining heroin round behind Kings Cross. If I studied hard, I could get away good and proper - and they’d pay for everything! Top plan.
I left home aged eighteen - with oh such excellent grades - to go to university, and never lived there permanently again. And we get along fine now. Well, as fine as anyone our age
gets on with their parents, I guess.
Now I’m a parent myself. And I still fantasise all the time about running away from home.
I can remember as early as 5 years old, waking up early and climbing out the bedroom window with a little bag containing a spare pair of pants and a toothbrush. Fortunately we lived in a bungalow. I would run away to Mr and Mrs Holden next door, a retired couple who would cook me egg on toast, pour me a drink of milk from the jug that was shaped like a cow, and keep me entertained until 8am.
I stowed away once in the back of the laundry van, hidden under the sheets. I got as far as Jacques Hair Salon, where mum had her interminable perms, before I was spotted and taken home for a good hiding.
She got so fed up with this lark that she packed a suitcase for me, took me in the car to the big Dr Barnados children’s home in Westcliff on Sea and turfed me out at the end of the drive. As I tripped off merrily with a spring in my step towards my new friends and kindly matron in the big house, she had second thoughts and yanked me back into the car. Home again for another good hiding. Funny how that low-level violence meted out so casually made not one bit of difference to our behaviour. I can never remember deciding not to do something in case I got a smack.
(I’ve a good mind to reintroduce smacking as part of my new upcoming totalitarian regime).
When I was older, I still hated living at home. However a couple of meaningful chats with my headmaster at school and a drive down the Cambridge Backs with the daffodils in full spring glory showed me there was a smarter option than living rough mainlining heroin round behind Kings Cross. If I studied hard, I could get away good and proper - and they’d pay for everything! Top plan.
I left home aged eighteen - with oh such excellent grades - to go to university, and never lived there permanently again. And we get along fine now. Well, as fine as anyone our age
gets on with their parents, I guess.Now I’m a parent myself. And I still fantasise all the time about running away from home.
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