At six years old I was morbidly
attracted to a flame-haired classmate called Sandra Edwards. I would
stalk her with the imperceptible stealth of a tick, insinuating
myself into her anticipated path and waiting, aquiver, for her to
brush by.
Once, during an S. E. reconnaissance
mission, I came across a couple of boys peering at a small turd they
had discovered just outside
the school lavatories. They said it had been left by Gary Rowley in
his haste to get back to the chaos of the playground (from the
presumably even greater chaos of his lavatorial procedure). Soon an
ever-changing group of children was keen to experience and spread
news of this most mundane of apparitions as if it were a miraculous
acheiropoiton - 'that not made by human hand', which, indeed,
it wasn't. Sandra Edwards, on hearing the rumour, was quickly upon
the scene and so, sensing a romantic opportunity, I prepared to
exchange smirks over our shared derision of Gary Rowley. All that was
needed was a moment of eye-contact. Unfortunately Sandra Edwards'
gaze remained resolutely downcast, she had found something altogether
more interesting to look at.
Seeing as the
much vaunted “shared interest” approach had proved futile I
decided to try a more traditional tactic; I would buy her affection.
My bribe would be that ornamental scarab of my childhood, the
Ladybird. At the next opportunity a reluctant Coccinella
septumpuncta was plucked from a rosebush and dropped into a
matchbox along with some Greenfly aphids to act as its packed lunch.
For added intimacy I resolved to present my gift away from the bedlam
of the school.
Due to my years
I must have been escorted by my mother to the end of Sandra Edwards'
street, though I remember being alone when I tapped on her front
door. Mrs Edwards answered and summoned her daughter who appeared
wearing the wary expression that she had come to adopt in my
presence. I presented my tribute and the recipient, at her mother's
insistence, took a tentative peep inside. Alarmed she dropped the
box.
“It's a Ladybird
- it eats Greenflies”, I blurted to a retreating mop of red hair.
“It
eats flies?”,
came an incredulous and distant reply.
“Green
Flies”, specified I, to me.
