In Bed with Jocasta by Richard Glover Read Free Book Online

belonging to a seven-year-old are always impossible to find. Removed at a whim, they then burrow into hiding — beneath the couch, behind the washing machine, underneath the grandmother. Many are never found, presumably having made a break for freedom. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to come across three dozen pairs of them, all hiding-out in the roof cavity, dreaming of escape, having sly-grog parties, and building themselves a hang-glider.
Brushing teeth, according to a seven-year-old boy, involves waving a toothbrush towards your mouth, and inhaling the faint smell of spearmint. Similarly, washing hands involves throwing a wary glance towards the soap-dish before making a dash for the backyard. Just as having a wee involves walking into a bathroom, and spotting the existence of a toilet in the vague direction that you’re aiming. ‘The toilet and I were in the same room at the same time. What more do you expect?’
Just as the shoelaces seem to spring apart, so does the seven-year-old head repel all head-gear. A hat, placed firmly on the head as you leave the house, will have vanished by the time you’ve reached the car. Hence my campaign to reinstate the bonnet, complete with a hearty chin-strap. Psychological damage for a whole generation of seven-year-old boys? Sure. But at least it’s sun-safe.
The list of acceptable sandwich fillings declines every day by one ingredient. Until there’s nothing left but peanut butter.
Discussing and debating the rules of a game always takes longer than actually playing it. It’s like watching the middle management of a very inefficient firm. No-one ever actually does anything, but there’s much
appearance
of activity.
What’s with the whole stick thing? The Space Cadet collects them wherever he goes. He walks around with them stuffed in his pockets or slid into his belt. Some are imagined swords and guns, but many are just sticks. ‘You haven’t dropped my stick?’ he’ll ask, eyes awash with panic. And so we march back into the bush, stepping over three million sticks, in order to find The Stick.
The pain of an injury depends on the circumstances of its occurrence. The average seven-year-old, while showing off on the trampoline for his glamorous sixteen-year-old baby-sitter, can plunge headfirst into a metal post and come up smiling. ‘It was nothing’, he’ll say, brushing the trickle of blood away from his eyes, and staggering slightly. But try brushing his hair …
In his own bed he’ll sleep curled up in the corner, looking angelic. Allow him into yours, and he’ll sprawl on an exact diagonal, arms and legs thrown out in a frozen star-jump. How can somebody who’s just over a metre tall, and thin as a post, entirely fill a queen-size bed? These are the mysteries of being seven.
At birthday and Christmas times he will open the most obscure gift — a three-metre blow-up duck; a matchstick model of the National Gallery; a complete kit for the preparation of a Japanese banquet — and say, instantly and sincerely: ‘This is
exactly
what I needed.’
There are as many excuses for getting out of bed as there are minutes between Bedtime at 9.00 p.m. and Final Unconsciousness at 10.00 p.m. Need for water, ghosts, need for more water, noises outside, blanket too hot, need for third glass of water, blanket too cold, pillow too lumpy, and — yes — the need to go to the toilet five times, due to over-consumption of water.
With every day, a new enthusiasm, and never the same two days running. A paddle-pop-stick castle, a clay pot, a garden that’s his very own, a Lego-and-dead-grass tableau, and a cubby for a pet frog should he ever get one. If only some of the enthusiasms lasted two days, the house might not be so full of just-started castles, pots, gardens, tableaux and cubbies. But, by then, his laces will stay tied. And he won’t be seven.

Girls’ Jeans
    T he younger shop assistant in Jay Jay’s Jeans was eyeing me over, assessing whether I was man enough to