It was a morning like any other. I was sitting at the breakfast table, the television flickering and droning behind me, and I was still trying to figure out why Anne Diamond was my dad’s fantasy woman. In front of me, Bill (for it was he) failed to notice the corn flakes falling from his spoon, and splatting into the bowl below, as he gawped at Miss Diamond in one of her “trendy” jumpers. I could hear her laughing behind me, laughing at everything her guest (probably Stan Boardman or someone like that) said, despite none of it being remotely funny. Meanwhile, I noticed my own corn flakes were revolting.
‘Mum, the milk’s sour’ I complained.
‘I should hope so,’ she said. ‘It’s been maturing in the cupboard for a week.’
There was a break for the adverts in TV AM, so Bill picked up his giant Herald, and began laughing like an executive, pretending he understood the articles. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I see things are dicey in Lebanon.’
‘How do you mean “dicey”?’ I asked.
He coughed, as he turned the page. ‘You know, like wee cubes.’
It was then I decided to leave home. Within ten minutes I had packed a case and left through the back door via the kitchen. Neither of my parents appeared to notice me leaving.
So began Never Kill Farmers, my juvenile foray into novel writing. Continue reading