Little boy . . .

Why did I start writing a blog? Why such a title? To find out who I am by telling the world who I think I am? I can tell the world about the dreamy, shy little boy I think I was. I hated injustice. I thought the world could be fair. I knew injured wild animals had to be killed. I wondered why babies had to be born in a hospital. I thought hospitals were for dying. I thought men had breasts to be able feed babies in an emergency. I was scared of the dark. That was the inner me. I had permanently dirty knees. I would click and cluck my tongue. I would grind my teeth. I loved picking at scabs and my nose but I'm too polite to tell you my favourite cuss words. I was a scrapper so long as I chose the fight. I hated being teased (still do). I hated seeing weaker children being picked on. I chose the outsiders to be members of my patrol in Scouts. I was neither the first nor the last picked when sides were chosen for games and I sometimes did the picking. I'd scrump pears and apples, cherries and plums; when mum asked why I had cigarettes in my pocket I said,"For smoking". I joined in the boyish games to see who could pee the highest, spit the furthest. I loved the prettiest girl in the class and dreamed of carrying her away on a great white stallion. I know I was a wriggle britches because my trousers seats' were soon shiny and thin if not torn or worn through. I'd run my sleeve along dusty window sills, and jump in puddles. I'd walk miles alone. Telling stories was natural . . .