Being Aged Seven -When Other people Aren't
 
 
 
"I bet you I'm even less competitive than you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?" -asked Uncle Peter , aged Thirty Two, pale, fat and no big brained giant-no match for my genius. I said it again, reading from last weeks Radio Times, saying each word slowly , emphasising the word "less" as if it really mattered, as if it would explain everything - then I was silent. Silent for what seems a long time when you're seven. Uncle Peters' brain wrestled with it for a while - He looked at the telly- opened his mouth as if to say something- looked around the small carpeted brown airless living room -back at the telly and then closed his mouth - before giving up.
 
I'd won. Spreading myself over the sofa and taking up as much of it as I could was my reward - my small feet pushing big him into the tiniest corner where it was stained.
 
He let me do it - he knew I'd won again - but I could tell by the way his left hand held the knife and his candle grey wax right hand stabbed the fork at the 49p for 6 "mum's got it all at Iceland" grillsteak on his plate that as far as he was concerned this wasn't  over - not by a long chalk.
 
Uncle Peter and Aunty Mary were my third set of foster parents. I'd been with them for a year - funny to say -even though Aunty Mary hadn't. She'd been gone for most of last school term. Uncle Peter said I shouldn't say she was gone to anyone - and especially not to the Social Worker who was supposed to call -but didn't.
 
It wasn't a bad life. Me winning my little battles against Uncle Peter. Never sure if I had a war with him - or not. Compared with my other two Foster Home's this one was second. Not as good as the one at Braintree - where I'd had the whole sofa to myself. But better than the one in Epping where I'd not been allowed on the settee.
 
Round Two
 
Uncle Peter - straight into the attack. Fixed me with a glare, "Okay smarthouse" he said,"Here's one for you" "When you go to the toilet - right ?"
All the warning bells sounded inside my head. I didn't like the sound of where this was going. But I thought I could play for time, maybe distract him, if necessary, grab the knife off of my plate, stab him in his little piggy eye.
My escape plan in my head - run upstairs out of the window where he was too fat to follow -stand on the windowsill and shout till Superman or 999 - whoever was quicker-came to get me.
 
"When you go to the toilet right" -he continued -a sly smile on his face
"What hand do you wipe your bottom with?" Ah-it's a joke - he's telling me a joke. It's not what I thought. Not what the wardens in Cell Block H Ilford had warned us against or we kids used to tell each other in the dormitories late at night after lights out about homes we'd been to. Their hands on our shoulders - being our mates- all matey, smiling and happy. Being something different when only we two were in the room. Hadn't happened to me - I'd been lucky this far yet - but lots including my friend James Simpson and his brother Trevor Storey were less lucky.
They can't be in any any  closed door room anywhere now -those two.
Back to the now. What does he mean? "What hand do I wipe my bottom with?"
Choices.
 
Run through my alternatives.
 
a) Get him to Repeat the question - that really winds Anne Robinson up on Countdown - it wouldn't wind him up though- he's so dumb he'd just repeat it!
b) Say Left.
c) Say Right.
d) Cry tears.
e) Stay silent.
 
He's not moved from the tiniest bit of settee but somehow he's towering over me. Looking up I can see the mixture of grey black unshaves from his neck to one of his chins. He's enjoying this. He thinks he's won. Then I got an idea.
Lets call this one idea (f).
Idea (f) What do you mean - when I go to the toilet -what hand ?"
I went with that. He just repeats the whole thing -slowly-emphasis on the word hand. For a moment we could have changed seats; me the stupid adult  and him the 7 year old kid  - and relishing his power. Run through, consider my alternatives again. Under time pressure now
 
Out of the corner of my eye I see "Robot Wars" my favourite telly program starting to begin. Craig Charles -my hero -introducing the contestants.
Concentrate-lets get this over with. I picture myself with the toilet paper -crouching to reach under my leg -then up.
"Left " I say -under pressure.  Triumphant - Uncle Peter -the biggest smile on his fat greasy chops.His eyes completely disappeared, crinkled away somewhere under his puffy cheeks now -no clue for where they are if I had to stab them-I'd need a map like George Clooney on E  R to find them.
He's enjoying this too much. He's laughing so much that for a second or two I forget that he's never this jolly.
 
Is he laughing or having an asthma attack?. Because there's no sign  of him stopping. Perhaps I should take his pulse - or give him a heindrick manoeuvre I'd heard about somewhere - whatever that is.Eventually it subsides. Here it comes - like a Spanish matador he delivers the killer blow-his punchline. "What -don't you use toilet paper like everybody else" he yells. And goes back into his gales of laughter. It was good -he got me this time - I grant him a little more of the settee and turn the full power of my intellect to Robot Wars - Robot Wars and Craig Charles - until next time.
 
Until next time
 
C Kevin Robson
 
An original work (I think) 16^th December 2003