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Ever since I can remember, I have occasionally found myself pretending to be someone else. I have always been prone to flights of fancy. Many is the time, (usually in the middle of some onerous task) When I would be brought crashing back to earth by my father shouting, “Wake up lad!” “You’re day dreaming again when there’s work to be done”.

In the early days, when I was perhaps 9 or 10, I regularly became a sort of unofficial 6th member of Enid Blyton’s “Famous Five”. A casual observer would think he was looking at a small boy helping his dad to fill bags with manure. He had no way of knowing that I, along with the rest of the imaginary gang, were helping Georgina’s eccentric uncle Quentin on a top secret archeological dig. Nor did he know that those two cheese sandwiches on the lorry dashboard were really a rough pine table, laden with all kinds of cold roast meats, succulent salad, fresh farmhouse bread spread with thick butter, and hot apple pie, with lashings and lashings of custard.





By the age of 12, one of my favourite alter ego’s was Tom Sawyer. I loved him because he was such a scallywag, and his life seemed to be filled with romance and adventure. In reality, I never did manage to trick anyone into painting a fence or doing any of my chores. I did however convince my brother Tracy that he was Huckleberry Finn, and together we set sail down the river Don on an inflated tractor inner tube. It wasn’t quite the same as rafting down the Mississippi, but we did amazingly well until we finally came to grief just outside Boothy’s scrap yard in Rotherham. Mesmerised by the sight of two huge spools of copper wire, we sailed too close to a barbed wire fence, and HMS Goodyear went down with all hands.



Somewhere in my teens, I underwent a startling metamorphosis and became Attercliffe’s answer to James Bond. The Bri Nylon of my work shirt became Sea Island cotton, and the shilling mix from the local chippy was now lobster thermadore. I tended to narrow my eyes a lot during that period, and I often allowed the suspicion of a cruel smile to briefly wrinkle the small white scar on my tanned cheek.
Mentally transforming my battered ex gas board Transit van into an Aston Martin was a bit of a stretch, even for my hyperactive imagination, but the sight of my unstable passenger seat tipping my even more unstable girlfriend into the rear of the van every time I attempted to wheel spin away from the traffic lights did much to reinforce the impression of an ejector mechanism.

These days I flit about easily from hero to hero depending on what I’m doing. You never know, you could be talking to Ray Mears, Brian Plummer, Bruce Springsteen, Hugh Fernley Whittingstall, David Attenbourough, or even Nigella Lawson if the fancy takes me. But if you listen carefully, you will often hear me whisper under my breath…..“What would Mickey (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=283) Wernick (http://www.blondepoker.com/blondepedia/blondepedia_view_player.php?player_id=283) do?”

What about.....

(http://www.fatyo.com/fat/kiko/images/kiko_20070905-01-01.jpg)

Such Quality:

If only I had 1% of your writing ability, way with words, but then we can all dream.

Superb post Red, a real natural & individual style of writing. Please write your autobiography.

 ;iagree;  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!  I'm gonna start holding me breath in protest until ya do.