With life hurtling so fast that it makes those little proton fellas whizzing 100 metres underground in middle-Europe seem like, well arthritic tortoises. And mid-whirl when the last thing feasible is studied contemplation, the very last thing you should be doing is taking your eye off the ball or your 13.75 year old daughter and the staccato kids. When rushing from madness to anarchy and back to confusion and lists, perhaps it’s better that you’re not looking for a Henri Wintermans moment, better that you stay in the human race and ask not where and when the race ends. But a word trickles down your head, tickling memory banks along the way, making them do that deep chuckling thing, and it drops somewhere bright and starts that final spiral spinning coin thing, and you wait till it stops but looks so nice you don’t mind waiting, and then twinkles to a halt and the word pops up and giggles “child”.
Not like the Phil Lynot look-alike singing Neil Young’s “I am a child”, one frosty Saturday morning on a silent and recently pedestrianised Cruises Street, when she was wrapped up and snuggled in her buggy. And also not like haring out the river bank with the front to back doubler and you in charge, and them squealing with delight shouting faster. No. And not like the clear and present danger of dropping one when the nurse pushed bundles into you arms, tiny and delicate and moth breathed. Or the robbing of small bottles of safe pasteurised SMA cause you still hadn’t a clue. Nothing to do with that, it’s still with that dripping tickling chuckling child thought giggling and ghouling round my head.
I’m really not sure what it is.