December 11th 1972

“Another Argument” / “Dad gave me anuvver 8 bob”

Read out of context this would appear to suggest I was being somehow rewarded financially for creating another argument.

It has to be said – and this is as good a place to say it as any – that these constant references to the household arguing is taking something of a ‘toll’ on me 36 years after the event. My brain must have filtered out all memory of the frequency of them. Yes, I can remember my parents arguing, but not to this degree at all.

Lately, this has sometimes made writing this blog less enjoyable that I otherwise anticipated it to be. I’m almost made to feel that whilst these are my words from 36 years ago, the person who wrote them is somehow not me. I realise this all sounds a little “drama queenish”, but the truth is I wasn’t expecting this to happen, nor have all these weird retrospective emotions stirred up.

I could ignore the mention of arguments in my posts but that somehow makes the project less ‘honest’. I guess I am writing this to convince myself that I can’t change the past – none of us can – so why not report on it properly?

Let me ‘expunge’ this too…

When I was a lot younger than 14 – maybe 6 or 7 years old – I ran away from home late one night. I can’t be certain if this was because of my parents arguing or not, but I do know I let myself out of the house and walked 2 or 3 miles from our home in Eastleigh to the outskirts of Chandlers Ford, near to where the Asda supermarket now sits. At around midnight or so.

I’m not sure a 6 or 7 year old trying the same thing these days would ‘survive’ as I did?

I – yes, clearly – can remember how my Dad pulled up alongside me on his pushbike (nope, we never even had a car in those days) and simply asked me if I was okay. I have no idea how long or in how much of a panic he had been cycling around looking for me, but I’ll guess the sight of me brought his blood pressure and heart rate down a tad? 

He never admonished me, nor told me off, just made me sit on the little seat that he’d built a couple of years years earlier on the bike’s crossbar and cycled the pair of back home where I just went to bed.

It was never discussed afterwards by either Mum or Dad.

Unlike many other things, this escapade is one I haven’t forgotten, even if the reason is lost in the mists of time.


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Filed under 1972 Diary Entries

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