What is the point...

of a memoir?

In my case, it can't be a factual representation, as the provision of iron-clad evidence is not the natural territory of a care-free, free-range rural child.

All I can do is reproduce memories as I have them, as erstatz and modified anecdotes stored as personal history, moulded by time and lost aspirations, a wish-fulfillment fantasy, combining both to suit the past I either want, or want to forget, or just as it was. Who knows.....

I suppose that I will just spell it out as it spills from that age-charred and sepia- toned folder called "The Past", as I recall them, and I hope that some might be amusing, at least.

I might call them "Old Tales from Old Mills...."



"Canary"

My Mother, (otherwise known as "The Old Dear"), suffered from selective agoraphobia.
Hated the village, its people, and its proximity to her little queendom of plants and garden and animals.

She loved one particular canary, who sang avian arias to her each morning, making her morning travails in the cold scullery almost bearable.

She also had a cat, (one among many, I'm sure, but it only takes one...).

An evil fucker, slant of eye and purpouse.

One morning, the Old Dear, fires lit and jobs done, entered the scullery to find her favoured diva reduced to gore and feathers.

And a very guilty looking cat, spitting feathers.

The Old Dears world revolved around her charges; animal, vegetable, and mineral. Egalite was implied, but never applied. This mad little ecosystem she created was meant to replace the unfair world she had rejected, and might be able to dominate on her own strict terms.

As most of us know, it does not work that way.

So, to balance things according to her unique vision of domestic heaven, she grabbed the offending cat, took it to the chopping block, and hacked the fuckers head off with an axe.

I saw this, with my own eyes.

Was my Ma cool, or what?


No wonder I am fucked in the head.




This is the first in a series, by the way.

Tune out now if you dont like it.