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I can't remember much about my childhood; only disconnected fragments of memory, which come to me during bus or train journeys, etc. The whole period is like an harmonious blur, an impressionist portrait of a proper childhood. I can't even remember the faces of my former friends (except one... except one).
Weirdly, I can't remember ever thinking during my childhood: properly thinking with clarity (about what I was doing). I floated through childhood without touching it. I acted on some vague instinct - if I was curious or it felt right, I would do it. I stayed awake until 2am playing videogames and eating very, very fizzy sweets (when I had my GCSEs the next day); I threw my brand new bike down a hill as an 'experiment', to see what would happen (the handlebar twisted to one side, and it was impossible to repair - so, I told my parents it was stolen); I snapped a brand new 30cm ruler into two as soon as I bought it (I couldn't stop myself), only because it had the legendary label: 'shatterproof', and I needed it for a test a few hours later. To me, none of this seemed even remotely strange. I didn't think (it was fucking great).
However, I do remember my best friend clearly.
Me and my best friend were very ill-suited, but I lived on the fringes of my hometown and he was the only person around, my age (when I was old enough to travel further to see other friends, I'd already made this vague commitment to be his 'best friend' - I couldn't abandon him). Now, I think he must have been bullied at his previous school (he moved to near me at 8) - and he saw this as a form of extra attention, and so he made it his purpose, for the rest of his life, to be as annoying as possible (so he was disliked, and thus bullied); he was a pantomime villain.
I didn't acknowledge his failings and glorified his average qualities, because he reflected on me (he was my best friend!). I laughed at his jokes, decided his inane comments were profound, and his overexcitement and love of petty vandalism was The Spirit Of Life (in retrospect, I suspect it was a form of dementia). I tried eagerly to be interested in things which interested him (cars and motorbikes). It was very one-sided. I didn’t want to admit he was an idiot (he was my best friend!).
If I'd had a more suitable friend, one who shared my interests (or what are my interests now, and could have been my interests then, with encouragement), I really could have grown and done something. Instead, I wasted my time trying to impress him (I didn't even like him… but I didn't know it at the time... I didn't think) by stealing road signs, etc, and I ruined my education.
I'm glad that he doesn't live near me now. If I saw him, I'd probably shout wildly about how much I hate working in a box-factory and punch him in his big moon-face (I've got to blame someone). Because now I think about things (such as: where did it all go wrong?) too much!
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