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THE STORY OF MY CAREER
I told my father that I wanted to be a factory production line worker. He said, “tell your mother” ... from the phone in the job centre which is next door to the betting shop.
I, as instructed, told my mother. She said, rather harshly, from the phone in the mental health centre, “Tell your father!”
I gave up parent stuff and did it myself. I went out ever so determined and landed my dream job, putting wheels on cars. I like the air powered spanner thing, it goes ‘Vweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’
One Saturday afternoon soon after I started graveyard shifts my parents pulled me aside as I stumbled into the house physically exhausted (I’m small and those wheels are bloooody heavy). They told me that they weren’t happy with my career choice in the present economic climate (my mother liked to watch the news as she drank shorts because of the Dow Jones Index thing which stressed her) and how I should have ‘stuck in’ at school like they did do and got a better job, and that they would prefer it if I was a writer/storyteller and stuff the production line crap as it was far far too uncertain.
I replied, ‘but parents, writing is so uncertain especially in uncertain car plants and those wheel things you can stand on are the next big thing, so, sod writing, I fancy putting bodies on wheels and soon the M1 and M6 will be full of them all speeding along at over 100 miles per hour’. They told me I was insane, mad, crackers, duhhh duhhhh and a lunatic and what would NORMAL people say?! ... Especially as I didn’t know my kilometers and expressed them in ancient miles per hour ... and that I should stick to writing and stop the silly, stuuuupid! Pathetic, laaa laaa head in the clouds talk about factory production line work and silly ‘wheel things’ people with too much money like to buy, or I would never be able to receive stacks of cash to pay the bills and my housekeeping beer and betting money to them and have hundreds put aside for a rainy day because of the ridiculous cost of living. I then said, ok, I’ll pack the factory work in and write and sell books; I would give in to the moral working class social demands of having a proper job and it didn’t matter if it was mind numbingly boring, it was ‘money!’ and that’s what mattered!
They then glared at me and told me that apart from not believing me which they never ever had because I was stuuupiiiid! The real world was an extremely harshy warshy place and they were dead against me getting a car with FOUR wheels although I would be great at changing flat tyres and wouldn’t need the RAC thank God because the membership was too dear. They also asked if I would like an appointment with a nice, sensible doctor they both knew through friends who attended the public health clinics, who would give me something to make me happier and calm me at the same time FOR PITY’S SAKE!
I have to say that snuffing them both out at the same time with two pillows was, apart from an act of love very difficult because I could only concentrate on one arm at at once. I tried and tried pressing hard and concentrating ‘ZEN’ hard with the left hand over my mother’s face which was actually behind the pillow. But the strength vacated my ignored stronger right hand and arm and my father kept pushing the pillow off his face. However I eventually managed my inspired mission by again ZENLY meditating there and then and melding both parts of my mind together as one which evened out the pressure differential (an engineer maybe?!) and now I’m on benefits and am peaceful (economy beans-ville) ... and I feed squirrels in the city to chill. However, I do write to pay the bills, so please buy a book, as at some point as I really have to bury those people and it is really expensive.
By the way, good news! My beautiful parents are on holiday in the tropics with Bear Grylls and I just the other day got a text from him saying they had both been fatally bitten by a deadly Rock Cobra by some rocks by a river. They had been wrinkly skinny dipping and he had buried them in a secret location, he couldn’t remember where. Unfortunate, but I shall report it to the police. I shall text Bear back and thank him for my alibi.
‘Good old Bear!’ That’s what I’d like to say.