Extract 5

A European Voyage: Exposure to Death in Myriad Forms, Symbolic and Manifest

I remember that M, my good friend (except when O excommunicated him), went to America and Canada in 2003, and, while he was there, periodically sent postcards back to our class. These were then read out by Mrs Sims. I haven’t described M, so I’ll do that now, in one sentence (more will come later).

A very tall and very smart young chap whose parents were/are both scientists and both lecturers at Macquarie University, although in different fields (M_1 is a biologist of some kind, whereas D is a geologist).[1]

I seem to recall that his postcards were pretty gripping and of a high-standard for a year 1 kid (unfortunately, I don’t remember any details). I mention this both because I am basically trying to include every single memory I have of my entire life in this soon-to-be behemoth of a book, but also because it’s pertinent to a very significant even that happened towards the end of 2003: I myself went overseas with my family, to Europe for six weeks.

In the weeks leading up to this grand voyage, I was tremendously excited, as you can imagine. We were going to go to on holiday to a far-off land, and for six whole weeks! And most of it would be instead of school! Six weeks of fantastic holiday fun and no school! To my great shame, I think I was almost as excited by the idea of watching movies and playing games on the plane than any city or castle or family visit that was included in the itinerary. But, you know, I was a little boy. What do you expect?

Before we left, my dad bought me a little, red journal for the trip and told me to make entries daily. Thanks to his foresight, I now have record of a big chunk of the trip (sadly, I stopped writing before the holiday’s end) to complement my memories, along with the many photographs and videos of the trip that have confused my direct memories. I will excerpt this journal frequently as I recount the wonderful time I had overseas.

I have one poignant memory from the immediate prelude to the departure. It must have occurred only a few days before we jetted off, during the late afternoon, just after my dad had picked me up from after-school care. My dad and I were trudging up the stairs back towards the playground, when we bumped into Mrs Sims, who was walking in the other direction. After an exchange of smiles and polite hellos between the two adults, my dad said:

“Thank you for giving Tom permission to go away. It’s a very long time.”

“No problem… In any case, he’ll probably learn more over there than he would at school.”

The two adults laughed. Then the scene goes blank. I’m not sure if my dad politely dismissed that suggestion following his brief laugh or what. It seems to me, in retrospect, that the statement conveyed a far greater truth than most of the platitudes typically exchanged during such conversations. I did indeed learn a lot during the trip. A great deal.

I believe we left home very early on the morning of 22 September, in a taxi. I seem to have a vague memory of being at the top of the driveway with a taxi at around 5 in the morning (although this is definitely blurred by the many holidays we’ve since had that started with an early morning taxi ride). Anyway, I don’t remember the car trip, or anything that was said, or how the check-in unfolded, or if we bought anything at duty-free, or if either my mum or my dad was stopped and given a full-body scan. I do remember, though, that my dad bought a packet of Wine Gums because they would be “good for taking off and landing” (I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed like an excuse to buy lollies, which was a pleasantly surprising thing for my dad to do). More importantly, I remember that the whole thing was terribly exciting.

When we finally got on the plane, my glee only increased. In this aeronautical Eden, we had free headphones and those funny eye masks you only saw in movies; we were given a cool, purple Wallace and Gromit pencil case, bourgeoning with delicious stationery and some paper for drawing on; we had our own personal video console, loaded to the brim with kid-friendly movies, TV shows and games; there would be free food delivered to us; and best of all, there would be no bed-time, so we could stay up as long as we wanted. Soon, Miranda and I were making bets about who could stay up the longest. We both wanted to stay awake the whole trip. With all the entertainment on offer, I felt I had a good chance of lasting the distance, even if the ride was going to be more than 20 hours.

The first few hours of the plane trip were euphoric. Miranda and I had always wanted Foxtel, mostly because it had 24 hour, puerile channels like Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network, and this plane was giving us a taste of what that might be like, because it had a whole series of Nickelodeon cartoons. It also had movies, including Finding Nemo, which I know I watched thanks to the first entry in my journal, written on the inside cover[2]:

we are going on a Holiday!!!

Plane trip

on the plane trip you got to watch TV and movies and games and radio and one of the movies was finding Nemo.

and it was Fun!

There were also plenty of little arcade games available to play, which I liked more than Miranda. These probably had less appeal than the other stuff, however, because they were either too hard or just dull.

And eventually, very slowly, I think the gloss did wear off the plane trip,[3] and I became accustomed to the idea of infinite entertainment, and after the stop-over I was probably more willing to sleep than watch another movie. Eventually, the idea of entertainment itself mouldered.

It did take a long time, though.

I believe we stopped over in Bangkok, which was pretty exciting to me. I think it was day-time when we got there – not that we ever left the airport. Anyhow, something extremely funny (that I didn’t find funny at the time) happened to me there. As soon as we emerged from our terminal and began to walk through one of the main concourses of the airport, swarms of Asian ladies began to gravitate towards me, gawking and marvelling at my cute little face and, more pertinently, my white hair. Hordes of them were orbiting the beacon of whiteness and incanting “Ooh” in wonderment and awe. I think I was probably quite scared. Even when I went towards the bathroom, a throng followed me. I honestly don’t know how I threw them off, because I seemed to be an incredibly powerful attraction to these oriental ladies. I was practically a boy siren. I probably could have picked up a few dozen brides if I had wanted to. 

Thankfully, we were soon back on the plane and heading towards Europe. And given that I’ve already described some of the features of the plane, let’s just skip ahead to the moment of arrival, at Charles de Gaulle airport on the morning of the 23^rd of September.

I recall that we arrived on a rainy morning. I know that my parents were extremely tired, but I think I was probably alert enough. I don’t have any memory of collecting our luggage from those carousels. I think I remember noticing the weirdness of the language on signs, perceiving that they used the same letters as English but in a weird order and with little squiggles I knew were called “accents”. Apart from that, my first memory of Europe is just of getting in a taxi and leaving the place. It’s really only a single shot I have in my mind of looking out the window at a new country, the first foreign country I had ever encountered, and feeling  a great deal of anticipation about the grand voyage we had just begun. What a journey it would be!

It seems that I remember quite a lot about the first day, perhaps because it was all so exciting and new. I remember arriving in Paris and, after checking in at our hotel in the centre of the city, immediately going to a café to have a classic French breakfast, including du café et des croissants avec de la confiture fraise. I remember that this was tasty, although not mindblowing. After that, I know that we took the classic boat cruise down the River Seine. I don’t recall many images from this cruise, but I remember getting a new exciting soft drink called Orangina from the little shop on the jetty before we embarked. I also know that this boat trip takes you past le Tour Eiffel, so I know that we would have had great fun spotting that. It was all pretty exciting. 

In my journal, there are a series of little pictures of the things we did that day, at the bottom of the brief entry. From right to left, there’s a little rectangular building titled “Airport”, then a little picture of a person running, then a crudely adumbrated taxi, then  some more tiny pictures of moving people, then a botched rectangular building titled “Hotel”, then “Café”, then another person, and then just below the Café is a little oval “Boat” riding along some waves.

I remember the second morning of the holiday very well. Suffering the effects of jetlag, I had woken up very early, at 4am Paris time. I recall our hotel room was relatively small, and I think Miranda and I were in the same big room as mum and dad. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to discover that my dad was up, too. If I remember correctly, he had been up so early that he had already got breakfast. And, providentially, my journal tells me of what I had for breakfast.

24^th September 2003

it is morning in paris I just had breakfast and I had a croissant for breakfast and I Had Apricot jelly and butter. and I had a role with butter and vegemite

and it was fun!

Interesting to note that I had a very CormacMcCarthyesque prolix and polysyndetonic prose style back then. I imagine not sectioning writing into sentences when writing is typical of young children, and I wonder if the reason it doesn’t come so naturally is that human speech isn’t sonically compartmentalised into neat, encapsulated syntactic strings. Or maybe that’s codswallop.

  I also remember being allowed on this morning to drink this fizzy apple drink that I had acquired the day before (I think). This permissiveness on my father’s part was a very nice surprise. I recall the actual consumption of the drink felt kind of jentacularly illicit in a very gratifying way (what an astonishingly turgid sentence). Copying Matt Gore’s idea, I also recall trying to write my first postcard back to K/1 S this morning. I don’t remember if I completed it.

On the next page of my journal for this day, there’s a much longer update on some events, including some relevant mementos pasted in (on my dad’s instruction, I think). I will quote this whole thing now, because it probably is more interesting than what tidbits I recall, even though it is partly just descriptions of the things pasted in next to the text.

Here is the boat ticket the train ticket and the Eiffel Tour ticket. In the Eiffel Tour we took the left up and Walked down the sters down then we walked to the train station and went to bastille and then we went to Madeleeine to get some toy’s

and it was fun!

This is a post card of the Eiffel tour. And today we saw that view when we were in the Eiffel tour

we even saw people training for soccer and when we were on the boat we saw all of those things built in the water  [format suddenly becomes utterly inscrutable, writing sloping severely] and the water and fun! [This word “fun” was here written upsidedown, probably because I thought it was fun to write the word “fun” upsidedown.]

Now, clearly this writing gives the impression that everything we did was stupendously great, and that the whole trip was one unbroken chain of delightful endeavours. However, I believe that, in contrast to the present day, when I wrote back then I was not interested in historical accuracy and felt absolutely no fidelity to the truth. Instead, I think I just wrote whatever was easiest to write, and I had probably been trained by school to describe things as “fun”. This is not to say that what we did wasn’t “fun” – most of it would have been – but I also have reasons to doubt that I was running around in a joyous daze, perennially enveloped in so-called “fun”. The Bastille, for example, was, at that age, probably not that “fun” for me, even though I did appreciate a good historical tale. 

The one thing from that entry that I have a direct memory of is being on top of the Eiffel Tour. More precisely, I remember gazing out over the massive, sprawling Paris cityscape as my dad pointed out places of note to me, most of which went in one ear and out the other. I remember thinking everyone looked like “ants”, which is no doubt a pretty standard response to being in a high place – but then again, the revelation of the fundamental relativity of human existence was pretty momentous, so I shouldn’t belittle it. I also remember that it was a very bright day, and that it was extremely windy up there. That’s all.

Thanks to my dad’s videoing, I also know that Miranda and I spent the morning of this September day crunching autumn leaves by the Seine.

25yt^[4] September 2003

 1^st we court a Taxi to the station and we Had a drink and some food. Then we picked up our car and it was a citroen and we drove out of paris and went where the King and Queen used to live in the place. And we went to our Hotel and went there for dinner. And I Had Ice cream for my dessert. and for my dinner I had Beef and chips.

And where the King and Queen used to live we went on a little pretend train. And you Had to pay to go to the toilette. And Here’s a toilette ticket.

After Le petit triannon I saw a Goose with the brain on the outside of its Head.

That paints quite a picture, that does. I love how I have assimilated the French spelling of toilet, and I am also fascinated by the creepy and macabre last sentence, written in a totally matter-of-fact, unassuming way, as if I was describing the most quotidian thing in the world. I also don’t have a memory of the mutilated, loosebrained goose, which is perhaps fortunate. Perhaps it was so horrific that I repressed the memory. 

The Citroen that we had hired was a navy blue sedan, as I recall it. It was a pretty nice car, probably quite expensive. And, in case you didn’t work it out, “where the King and Queen used to live in the place” was Versailles. Although I didn’t recount this in my journal entry, I remember being awe-struck by the vibrant, prismatic, perfectly symmetrical splendour of the gardens, and the opulence and majesty of the palace itself. It was really a feast for the eyes, especially in the spring. In our upstairs corridor, there’s a great photo of me standing in my striped shirt, my bright red backpack high on my shoulders, as behind me rows and rows of perfect flower gardens unfurl into the distance. I imagine that we did the whole long walk through all the main rooms of the palace, and that some things probably caught my eye while others didn’t. Certainly, I would later come to be very tired by going to huge chateaux and castles, and it’s possible that this ennui (to use a French word) might have started at Versailles, after a few too many paintings and ostentatious, goldlined rooms and fourposter beds. But I can’t remember. 

The next day’s journal entry continues on from the last one as if it’s the next sentence. There’s no obvious break. However, I do know it’s from the next day because I’ve written “26st September 2003” in tiny letters just above the start of it. Here it is.

we drove to a Hotel and for breakfast we Had coco pops crossonts[5] and a role. And we went to a chathedril[6] then we had lunch Next to the Magic museam and we saw a show and They pulled out some red lights out of our ears.

And for dinner We Had chicken and chips and for dessert we had vanilla And chocolate ice cream.

Fortunately, my memory of this day is also bolstered by my dad videoing large portions of it. I’m not sure which Chateau we visited, but I do know that I had great fun kicking chestnuts along a pebbled street as we departed (at least, I think we were departing), and exclaiming “Chestnut soccer” as I did so – a terrific moment that is caught on video. Did I mention that I was a very boisterous little boy?

The magic museum, known in the French as “La Maison de la Magie” (which I know because I pasted the ticket into my journal), was a great place that was perfect for children.[7] What happened was that we were eating in the café about twenty metres away from La Maison de la Magie and suddenly, at the arrival of one o’clock (or whatever time it was), these strange automated dragon-things started poking their heads out from some of the upper windows. I was utterly mesmerised by the spectacle and wanted to find out more. Soon, we found out it was a Magic Museum and decided to go in and see a show.

That was when “They pulled out some red lights out of our ears”. What a fucking strange sentence.  Luckily I can decipher it, because I remember what I was referring to. At the start of the show, the two or three magicians (can’t remember how many there were), started moving through the dark theatre with laser pointers, performing amusing tricks involving people’s ears. One trick was to “pull” the red light out of a person’s ear. This was pretty impressive to me. I don’t think I had ever seen a magic show before, so the whole thing was quite spectacular and novel. I remember they had really cool music, and that they did one of the classic card tricks using an audience member, and that there were lots of other mindbending and arresting prestidigitations.  It was a really enjoyable experience. God, it was a good holiday. In fact, I was probably having the most fun I have ever had in my life by this point. It was really great. The “chicken and chips” was also really, really tasty. The chickens in France are so much more rich and fatty and flavoursome than the identical, singlebreed, factoryfarmed, monstrous, obese, crippled chickens that are reared in Australia and most of the Western world.

The next day was also very good, and busy. In this following extract, I have placed my dad’s amendments of the original text in parentheses.

27^th of September 2003

we drove to Chanord and I took a pitchare with My dads camrea and I took a pitchare with My Mums camerea and I filmd with my dads Video thing what ever its called. And there we’re Double Ster cases. (We left Chambord and had lunch in a forest – a picnic – with acorns dropping all around us in a hut.)We drove to (le Chateau de Chenonceaux) and we had to cross a bridge into the thing and after that we went in Maze  and I came 1^st. And then we came to our farm House and for dinner I Had pizza and for dessert I Had chocolate mosse. Here are some things.

Judging by the little brochure for “Chenonceau” that I have stuck into the page of my journal following the entry where I mention it, I think the Chateau itself is actually called “le Chateau des Dames”. I kind of seem to remember it. It was, I think, like Versailles, awesome, majestic and profoundly decadent. Unfortunately, though, I think I really got bored the more we moved through it. Already chateaux were becoming burdensome to me. They were so boring, even if I could appreciate their lavish beauty. Clearly, though, I did enjoy the maze. Knowing me at that age, I probably came 1^st because I sprinted as fast as I could, not because I had superior navigational skills to the rest of my family.

The “farm House” I mentioned was to be our abode for a whole week. It was a beautiful, rustic, redbrick, twostorey manor located near the Medieval town of Domme, in the Dordognes. It sat on one edge of a massive property, which also contained fields of corn for geese, and rows and rows of walnut trees. Behind the house rose a steep, forested hill. It was an idyllic place, and apparently quite cheap for the kind of self-contained, beautiful residence it was. To be honest, at the time, I think I found it a teeny weeny bit scary. Indeed, the first night we stayed there, I believe I was reluctant to sleep away from my parents. I did manage though.

Eventually, we all came to love the house, and exploring its expansive property was a tremendous joy. It really felt like an adventure.

28th September 2003

we went to sarlat[8] and we Had breakfast and I Had a croissant with red berry jam and strawberry jam and we went to a cafe in our village. And I Had oringina and we went to the DorDogne river and skipped rocks. And walked a little bit into the river. And we went to Domme and we looked BinocULars and we Had chips and Lots of things with bread for dinner.

29^th September 2003

we went to the supermarket and when we came back it Was Nearly lunchtim! And for lunch I Had boursin and bread and after that we
went there again and got a ice cream and I Had Mango

went to a castle called Castelnaud and it was the 100 years war castle which I Have a model of. And at the 100 years War castle I got a toy and they Had armour and a model and Lots of things and on a computer thing I won and I Lost two lives but I Had one more and after a got a poster for it! And for dinner I Had VegeTables and Home made chips and after that I stayed up and Had a piece of chocolate a chocolated mo^ose and I Hot chocolate

The toy I got was, I believe, a “Papo” figurine of Richard the Lionheart. It was a little 5-inch-tall plastic man wearing full armour, including a shield and a sword. I treasured him dearly. Eventually, I would become obsessed with the Papo collection, and every time I saw a set of them at a shop, I would request that my dad buy me one (or more). In the end, I would amass a veritable army of figurines. With these, I could then orchestrate grand wars, featuring both cavalry and infantry, involving intricate strategies and manoeuvres, and showcasing a cavalcade of very intense, very dexterous and very athletic hand-to-hand combat.

At this point, though, it was just Richard the Lionheart under my command, and my love was concentrated entirely on him. I was really enamoured of this noble man. What a paragon of chivalry he was! He was a valorous, virtuous and venerable king, a powerful warrior, and in my mind’s eye, he slashed through his enemies like thickets in a Medieval forest, vanquishing all in his path in his righteous quest for God and Mother England. The things he could do with his mighty, burnished sword! As you can infer from the 29^th September entry, I had learnt about the One Hundred Years War between England and France thanks to this Medieval model-set that my dad had bought for me, and it had become a bit of an obsession (as a boy who was a tiny bit Asperger’s (like a lot of boys), everything was an obsession for me). The idea of a war that lasted one hundred years was just electrifying to me at that age, and its appeal was probably enhanced by my lack of understanding about what a war that lasted for one hundred years really entailed (I think I just had this vague notion in my head of kings continually sending out forces to battle each other out on a pastoral battlefield profuse with blood and carcasses, where men were constantly hacking and thrusting and stabbing at each other, all wearing shiny armour, all possessed of blood-spattered, furious, prognathous faces, and all adamant of the nobility of their cause).^[9] I wish castles and Medieval warriors and wars still had the same attraction to me as they once did, because thinking about them used to bring such joy to my life. I can’t really understand it now. Why was it so arousing to imagine being an archer firing arrows from a turret, or a knight slashing through a mass of foreign soldiers? Boys are weird.

The “boursin” I mention is a brand of French flavoured cheese. I believe there are two varieties; the one I really liked was the herb and garlic variety. I liked it so much, in fact, that I soon declared it to be my favourite cheese. In retrospect, I can see that my fondness was fertilised by the feeling of exclusion that naturally attended the fact that the rest of my family spent half their time eating cheese and rhapsodising about it, and I hated everything they ate (it was either unpleasant-tasting brie or foetid mouldy cheese).

we went to a Mill (Tuesday 30 Sept) and got some flower and we Had a picnic lunch then we went to PREHISTOLOGIA and I took some pitchares of some of the things. We had a OmLet And some boursin soup.

Prehistologia is a “parc préhistorique” that I had begged my dad to take us to, as soon as I found out about it. According to the little brochure I have pasted into my journal, it is (or perhaps I should say “it was”) le plus grand parc d’Europe, and it features a series of life-size exhibits of creatures de 4,6 milliards d’années aux hommes du Néolithique. Basically, it was a walk through a forest past giant plastic statues of dinosaurs in various postures and attitudes, then megafauna, and finally a few museum-type scenes of Neolithic humans enacting their daily routines. As I wrote in the journal, I took a lot of photos, almost certainly with one of those disposable, wind-up cameras that they possibly don’t sell anymore. I also remember very much enjoying the opportunity, although I think it didn’t quite live up to my fantasies (I had perhaps been hoping for animated dinosaurs, or a really immersive, realistic experience, replete with historically accurate environments). I’m sure I did relish the opportunity to show off my knowledge of dinosaurs to my parents, though. As I’ve mentioned, I was obsessed with dinosaurs during this period, and had a very thorough knowledge.

1st Oct 2003

we went up Domme And at Domme we got croissants and My dad Showed me where a squirrel WAS

and we went to the market and bought some rasberrys and strawberrys and Ate them and when we where driving back we picked up my Toy kning^Ht and came back to the farmhouse

Had a walk and saw a frog and then When my dad was away we walked to Domme and bought a iceblock.

came back from Domme and Had beef for dinner

I mention here, among other things in this evidently very action-packed day, that “we picked up my Toy kning^Ht”. I am, of course, talking about Richard the Lionheart. You may be wondering how I lost him. Well, the story is amusing (though I didn’t think so at the time). I must preface this by saying that I have always been prone to losing things. It’s a symptom of my absentmindedness. While I loved and revered Richard the Lionheart and kept him clutched to my breast at almost all times, this did not prevent me from accidentally losing him on more than one occasion. In fact, it probably increased the risk. The first time I almost lost Richard was when I was urinating. You see, I was so smitten with the man that I had taken him to the toilet with me (no homo). Due to my absentmindedness, I almost never put down the object I’m currently holding when I start doing something else that would be easier with two hands. This occurred here. I kept holding Richard the Lionheart even as I pulled down my pants and pointed Percy at the porcelain. As the small ammonic stream trickled from my infantile penis, I must have relaxed my grip on Richard, because, suddenly, he fell. In an instant, there was a splash, and Richard was bobbing around in the foamy, yellow sea. I screamed.

“Dad! Dad! I need help!”

When my dad eventually arrived at the scene of the calamity, he was pretty irate. Why had I taken Richard to the toilet? Why hadn’t I put him down? When was I going to learn that you’ve got to put the object in your hands down when you’re doing something else? Somehow, though, his moral sense compelled him to do the sordid and revolting deed of fishing the sullied king out. I was very grateful that Richard had survived, even if my dad did have to give him a thorough rinse before I was satisfied he had been de-sullied.

Later, when we went out to dinner one night in the town of Domme, possibly on the night of the 27^th (I think the 27^th because I remember having pizza at a restaurant), I somehow left poor Richard behind altogether. The next day, I remember I wasn’t sure whether I had actually abandoned Richard at the restaurant, though that did seem to be the most likely possibility. As a consequence, my dad had begun to rehearse a line he would perform to the burly, agrestic southern French men at the restaurant pub in order to reclaim Richard.

The story of what happened when he eventually had to do the deed is pretty hilarious. Understandably, my dad had been nervous about approaching some big, rough-hewn French men to ask for a little toy knight, particularly in light of the fact that I wasn’t 100% sure I had actually left it at the restaurant. Anyhow, he steadied himself, exited the car and began slowly ambling towards the men. As he approached, they began looking at him. When he was close enough, he spoke. In an affectedly orotund voice, he declared, “Je cherche Richard, l’homme avec le coeur d’un lion”. Unsurprisingly, after a pause, this request elicited hearty, uproarious laughter from the hardy agriculteurs at the bar, and my dad was embarrassed, though enormously relieved, when the barman both understood what he had meant and obliged. Richard was taken from his regal pedestal among the drinks and handed over to my dad. When my dad got home, I was also elated to have my Richard returned to me. In fact, I ended up rationalising the shambles as a good thing, because the way I was beginning to see it, it was almost fitting that Richard had undergone such travails^[10]. Knights are meant to go on adventures!  

2^nd Oct 2003

we went to cadouin to see very old cloisters

But They were closed. Then we went to the Dordogne river and Had a picnic and we drove to a cave that Had cave paintings and we saw bisons and horses. We went to LA Madeleine and saw a ruin of a village and saw a goat.

we went to dinner and We Had boursin soop

This was a great day, and I remember a few scenes of it in my head. The picnic we had by the Dordogne River was, I think, really beautiful and lovely. And then, as I write in the entry, we went to see the ancient cave paintings that are responsible for some of the renown of that region of France. I remember we had a short guided tour through these, possibly in English (because I seem to recall actually learning something from it). They were really striking and especially fascinating to me in light of what I’d learnt from Walking with Beasts about prehistoric humans. Indeed, the lives of prehistoric humans was another obsession of mine that has continued to the present day. I can tell you a fair bit about Homo habilis, Homo erectus, Homo heidelbergensis and Homo neanderthalis, and even briefly considered a career as a palaeoanthropologist. Nowadays, I’m thinking that, if I do pursue a career in science, I might like to be a neuroscientist or cognitive psychologist, and obviously that would incorporate a lot of evolutionary psychology.

To digress somewhat, I find it quite interesting that all the bad things that happened to me during the trip are conspicuously absent from my journal. I don’t mention my trials with Richard, and I sure as hell don’t mention the moment, tragically caught on video, when I touched a stinging nettle for the first time in my life. Since this is not in my journal, I shall recount this painful story now. If I remember correctly, the incident began with my sister deciding to squat in the little, riotous patch of wild mint in front of our house with a view to caressing the mint leaves, whose texture she possibly praised (don’t ask me why). On account of the fact that my dad was filming the scene, I think I wanted in on the action (typical of me at that age, and also now – I am always a jester when in familiar company). So, anyway, eager to get in frame, I bolted down the stairs and immediately assumed a crouching position down by my sister. I then reached out my hand to touch some mint myself. As soon as I pressed my finger against the green, serrated leaf, I screamed. It was excruciating, horrific – I had never experienced such pain in my life. Suddenly, I remembered my dad’s warning when we arrived: “There are stinging nettles growing around the front of the house, kids”.

“STINGING NETTLE!”, I wailed as I ran back up the stairs. Having been so frazzled and shocked by the excruciating deceit, I was now totally unself-conscious. All ego was gone. I no longer even registered the camera. All that mattered was that I get to my mum. She could administer me medical care and coo in my ear, and I could submerge myself in her warm, obliging bosom…

Looking back, I suspect the shock of the deception exacerbated the pain. Indeed, when I later got stung by nettles, they weren’t nearly so bad as I remember that one being (and the evidence of my agony is on video). Emotion was probably a large element. I recall being highly indignant at the perfidious and nefarious “stinging nettle”. It really was such a cruel betrayal. Considering how unlucky I had been, I quickly began to wonder if it had all been a trap by my dad and sister. Although they would later disabuse me of this belief, they were still responsible for making the incident worse in one way, because they had actually been laughing when the tragedy occurred, and later belittled my reaction. “You were so shocked,” they giggled. “Stinging nettles don’t hurt that much,” they sneered. Oh how callous they were. At least my mother was on my side. My keening wasn’t funny to her.

In truth, this was the usual family split. Moreover, we commonly saw our factional allegiances as fitting within a broader familial taxonomy. My mum and I were on the Lithgow side (I always felt more Lithgow), whereas my sister and my dad were the Aitkens. Our household sometimes did actually feel riven in two. The deep parent-child affinities were just so polarised. Some weird genetic shuffling had gone on to produce two kids who both felt like 90% one parent.

Back to the narrative.

3rd Oct 2003

we Drove to GouffRe DE padirac and we went on a boat trip in a cave and Walked around and went to castlenau^[11] and bought a black toy knigHt called Satan. ^because They feared Him and it was boaring and we got some yoghurt from the Village Called carennac and Drove to the farmhouse and Had Ham and chips for dinner and for deassert I Had Oringina^[12] SHoTS.

This entry is clearly quite scatterbrained and rather incoherent. A little off the wall, if I may say so myself. I do remember a little from the cave trip. My overall recollection is that it was really enjoyable in a spooky way. Dark and shadowy and mysterious -- almost like another world.
The Satan toy was a fearsome, extremely diabolical-looking Papo figurine coloured entirely black, with flapping, menacingly ragged and jagged robes, and an allblack, redeyed, equally infernal horse. He was a perfect counterpart and antagonist to the righteous and noble (etc) Richard, and the acquisition allowed for a lot of wonderful goodie vs baddie, hero vs villain type scenarios to play out. I was very pleased to have him, even if a little fearful of just how utterly evil he was. I can’t remember if I had enough moral sense and rectitude to always contrive the victory of Richard over Lucifer. I might not have. I was not exactly a Puritanical child; I very rarely thought of God, and probably half-assumed He didn’t exist from a very early age. Thankfully, this ensured I didn’t think my new Satan figurine was invested with occult powers or anything like that.    

4^th october 2003

We packed upall our Stuff and drove to paris and on the way we Had a picnic Lunch and for dinner I Had a vegemite sand which because it was really Late.

It might have been this day that we had lunch next to this really fascinating and intricate bonfire/woodhut construction in a forest by the road somewhere. What happened was that we got out of the car, maybe at some signposted stop, and walked into this classic European forest – cool, dark, pine-needle-covered, with a canopy far above and no understory. Very quickly, we spotted what you might describe as an architectonic pyramid of sticks. Obviously, someone (or some people) had put a lot of effort into it, because it was a rather magnificent little building. Miranda and I immediately tried crawling inside it, and there was just enough space for both of us to fit. It was great fun to be in there. It really made you feel like some kind of caveperson.  

5^th oct 2003

we Had breackfast and saw ^My uncle Macs Grave at the Somme. And we went to another cemetery at villers Bretonneaux. it was an Australian one and then we Had dinner and went to bed.

I have zero recollection of visiting war graves in France.

6^th oct 2003

I went to a place on the Metro and I Had a melted cheese and Ham sandwich and I Had a crape With Honey on it. And I Had some FanTa and then we went SHopping and bougHt knigHts for me then we bougHt me a jacket. And then I Had vegemite for dinner.

As you can see, I kept expanding my Papo toy collection. And the first sign of laziness appears here when I miss out the 7^th of October. No idea what happened on that day.

8^th Oct 2003

we Had breakfast and went on the metro and went to DisneyLand and my favourite ride was The Big Thunder Mountain and He’rs a pittchure

Below this, there is indeed a picture – a hand-drawn one, that is. It’s very messy and chaotic, drawn in a rather spastic hand… Ok, to be fair, it does give the impression of movement, activity and life, and I suppose that’s accurate.

I remember Disneyland completely living up to my fantasies, despite their number and intensity – great on both counts – and I immediately knew that the eager, frothing-at-the-mouth-type anticipation I had felt leading up to the visit was justified. The place was truly paradisiacal – so splendid, magical, vibrant and vivacious, so spectacular and so bounteous, with so many attractions, so many rides, so many things to see, eat, try, do. As soon as we finished our wait in the queue and strode in, it was genuinely overwhelming to be walking along the magnificent boulevard, surrounded by fantastical sights, cartoonish shopfronts, movie mascots, men on giant stilts and signs everywhere promising a veritable cornucopia of ecstasies and narcotic delights. WHAT SPLENDOUR, WHAT BRILLIANCE, WHAT ABUNDANCE! Where first? In what order? What should we eat? Which rides am I brave enough to take on? I was literally entranced by the whole thing – overcome with mania. Running around madly like a rabbit in flight (or perhaps a wolf in pursuit).

 I remember going on some Haunted House ride, a Pirates of the Caribbean interactive walk-through ride, the classic “It’s a small world after all” boat ride, and this terrific rollercoaster called, as I say in my journal, The Big Thunder Mountain. I was initially averse to going on The Big Thunder Mountain because I think I’d had a bad experience on a rollercoaster before (or else the idea was just too terrifying). But I eventually steeled my nerve and joined the queue.

And when I eventually got off the ride at the other end, boy was I glad I did, because it was seriously fun. I remember swerving and rattling along this track through this stunning fake geography, going super fast and really testing the limits. I loved it. It was so exhilarating. And I was so proud of myself for being brave enough to go on it. I was so proud that I had done it with my fearless sister, and that I could now go back home and tell my friends that I had conquered The Big Thunder Mountain, which I now regarded (baselessly) as the greatest rollercoaster in the world.

I also liked the “It’s a small world” peregrination far more than my parents. Admittedly, this isn’t saying much because they truly hated it. In all seriousness, though, I found it quite pleasant – perhaps even moving. I’m not afraid to say it.

The “Pirates of the Caribbean” walk-through ride was pretty cool in its eeriness and ghoulish atmosphere, but the funny thing is that Pirates of the Caribbean wasn’t out in Australia at that time, so Miranda and I had no idea about the context. It was only much later, when I saw the film, that I realised the theme of the ride! The Haunted House ride was ok, I think. Pretty cool. Nothing to write home about (or write in a journal about). 

I am afraid to say that the excitement of being in Disney Land did probably fade as the day wore on. In the afternoon, I remember that we wandered over to this massive tent where kids could get their faces painted with various, cool designs. Miranda was extremely eager to do this, but I was extremely loath. The reason for my facepaintingphobia[13] is a bit unclear, even to me, but I think it had to do with subtle trauma inflicted on me by my sister. My sister painted me on at least one occasion, and I think something in the act might have rubbed off on me (as it were). I don’t know. What I do know is that I did not want someone to paint me. I definitely did not. The idea was just horrible. It made my skin crawl (as it were).

I think it was after that that the massive Halloween parade began. No one in our family had known that there was a parade scheduled, so when these giant mascots and floats began processing down the boulevard in front of us, accompanied by very loud and very awful music, we were really taken aback. It was vaguely frightening, as I recall it.

That’s all I have to say about Disney Land. In hindsight, it seems like a deeply strange experience. I think it was. I think I would really hate to go there now. It’s a creepy place. Does more need to be said? Probably not.

Oh wait a minute! I didn’t miss out the 7^th of October. Here it is, on the next page.

7^th Oct 2003

we saw ADOlpH saxs grave at Montmartre

me Had luⁿch and saw the catacombs with Angus My cousin and there where b million bodys of skeletens

we Had a Hot chocolate in the café and Had italian for dinner

I wanted to see Adolph Sax’s grave because from an early age I had wanted to play the saxophone. I remember being really entranced by the tombstone and pondering deeply Adolph’s engineering acumen. Odd, in hindsight.

The catacombs were strange in midsight. The image of multitudinous skeletons stacked up tightly against each other for hundreds upon hundreds of metres is not something one forgets and, accordingly, the picture is very vivid in my mind.

Something that is strange in foresight (meaning “right now”) is my reticence in this journal. I definitely remember feeling many things and experiencing many thoughts while wandering through the dark, macabre tunnels – for example, I seem to remember thinking about the prevalence and pervasiveness of death in the Middle Ages and how much life has gotten better and how much we’ve now buried death (as it were), and I think I also thought about Medieval peasants and monks and a few other things…

I guess I just didn’t bother including them in my journal because 1.) I wasn’t thinking of any future reader (writing entries was more just a chore that I was doing automatically), and 2.) writing about my feelings would take time and effort that I didn’t want to expend. Posterity certainly didn’t cross my mind. After all, I didn’t know the word.

To return to the entry, Angus was that gregarious cousin I mentioned many, many pages ago. As I also mentioned previously, he is three years older than me, but luckily he was never supercilious towards me, and I greatly enjoyed being around him. I neglected to mention in the entry that we ended up having dinner not only with Angus but Rick and Julie, too (Angus wasn’t travelling alone). I remember the pizza I had was delicious.

9^th oct 2003

we went to the tuileries garden and after that we went to sainte chappelle which was the king and Queens chappelle the we went to the conciergerie WhiCh used to be a prison durring the Revuloution and thats Where they kept the King and Queen before they chopped of her head

and We Had pizza for dinner and we bought chocolates from Amelies fruit shop

It might have been on this day that a nice Asian man asked Miranda and I if he could take a photo of us as we tossed some bread to ducks. We accepted this request, with the secondary consent of our parents. (No, he wasn’t a pedo!)

Also, in case you were wondering, that is indeed an allusion to the charming and moving 2001 motion picture starring Audrey Tautou. On an unrelated note, you can observe in this entry that reading French was beginning to infect my English spelling – for example, “the king and Queens chappelle”. I find this amusing.

Hereupon, I feel I should also mention one other amusing thing that happened sometime during our stay in Paris, but which I haven’t recorded in this journal. On one sunny day, Miranda and I were sitting together on some steps somewhere in Paris, probably in one of les Jardins. I think we were separated from each other by maybe three metres, and were both playing individually. Our parents must have been a few metres farther away, and I can infer from what happened next that they not really attending to us (very negligent, I know). I imagine I was probably passing the time manipulating my Papo figurines and making noises – basically minding my own business and enjoying myself. Suddenly, however, my peace was disturbed: two French girls were approaching me. When they reached me, I looked up at them. I was terrified. And then they started gibbering at me in rapidfire French.

That was when I bolted. I simply went red and fled.

As soon as I had made the decision, I regretted it. I wished I had just said something back to the girls in English. They probably would have actually been able to understand me.

I did reason that my reaction could have been worse. As much as I was mortified, I was also pleasantly surprised at the gumption and initiative I had showed to get out of the situation as soon as possible – no niceties, no pussyfooting, just direct action. And one thing I made sure not to do after my acrimonious exit was look back.

Reflecting on the incident now, it seems to me a prime example of the power of the “fight or flight” instinct. The only question is why I felt preyed upon by two pretty French girls…

When I had reached groundcover (meaning a distance sufficiently removed from the scene of the disaster), I remember Miranda came over to me and began laughing at my clownish retreat. The incident rapidly became an amusing anecdote to tell my parents. I figured it would be best to laugh along. And so I did.

10^th oct 2003

we went to the LOUVRE

we saw a MUMMy.

and Egyptian things and we saW mona Lisa and on the way back we bougHt a toy whitch^[14]

then we court the train to Montmartre

we went to see the the Mills from Amelie while Mummy was Shopping and then we Court the plane to England

we court a London taxi from the Airport to my Mums auntys House and she Gave me a little fish pin an a jacket and a jumper and a teddy 

This was obviously a very busy day. The Louvre was certainly an interesting experience. The Mona Lisa was obviously the painting I most wanted to see, and I had been looking forward to it a great deal, I think. When I actually came to it, I recall I was impressed and made sure to gaze at it intently for many minutes. At the same time, though, it was a kind of bathetic experience. The fact that I was surrounded by a throng of strangers all doing the same thing as me, with a constant stream of tourists walking past, did not conduce to a spontaneous, organic, transcendental communion between me and the hallowed painting. Of course, I did manage to test the whole “its eyes follow you” phenomenon, and verified it. That was good.

After leaving the Louvre (which I think we raced through, only stopping by a few of the real highlights), I imagine I began to get quite excited about going to England. My parents were probably more sad and wistful about leaving France (they knew they weren’t going to go again any time soon), but I don’t think I would have been. England and Scotland excited my imagination more than France. 

My mum’s aunty (or my great aunty) is called J, and she is married to a very loquacious, masculine, oldfashioned, severe and sportsmad former seaman called C. They have two children, T, who now lives in Australia and is soon to be married to a woman from the Central Coast, and L, who now lives in Norway and was married a few years ago to some Norwegian bloke. Back in 2003, I think it was just C and J living in the house in London, but L and T both lived in London too, and they popped in for a visit at least once during our stay. On this first night, I remember being extremely pleased by the multiple gifts I received. I was a very lucky boy. The jacket and the jumper were both very cool, I thought, and the teddy was a terrific bonus. God I was happy.

11 Oct 2003

we went to a place where canal boats sailed an then We Went on a bush Walk and there where Lots of squirrels and we Had Lasagne for dinner and we met we L[redacted] and met T[redacted] the night before

I do remember seeing one squirrel scurrying by ahead of me along the track and then scrambling up a tree.

12 oct 2003

We drove to Cambridge And we met my dads friend and his sons are josepH and Alexzander and Had dinner and slept in there room.

My dad’s friend is a history professor at Cambridge called Chris Clark. In 2012, he published a highly successful and acclaimed history of the causes of World War I entitled The Sleepwalkers: How Europe Went to War in 1914. This year, he was granted the highly prestigious, august title of Regius Professor of History at Cambridge, and is now beholden to the Queen or something. My dad met Chris at Sydney Grammar, where he was always a highly intelligent, precocious, witty sort, verbally dexterous, quick on his feet and also very good at exams. They then spent a fair bit of their young adulthood together, living in the same house, going on the same foreign expeditions, etc.

I think I really liked Chris’ two sons, especially Alexander, who was a really gregarious and congenial boy my age. I felt some kind of affinity with him. I have only one memory of their room, and it was of looking at their bookshelf and seeing the luminous Green spine of the latest Guinness Book of Records (presumably the 2003 book). I was attracted to this object and probably said something like, “You have the latest Guinness Book of Records”, to which Alexander presumably replied, “Yeah, it’s pretty cool” or something.  

Monday 13^th oct

We went to my mums old House and walked to her school and we walked across a park and then I Had pizza for Lunch with my dads friend chris and his sons. After Lunch we to Duxford imperiAl War museum and it was full of army planes and tanks and model people and We went on a concorde. And we went on a train and a Flying Fox.

Then we went back Home and Joseph practised his insect speech.

The house we visited was, I think, Chris and Jen Coleman’s house many decades ago. My mum stayed there for an entire year when she was 13, and attended the local school.

The Duxford Imperial War Museum was not that fascinating to me (I wasn’t actually that interested in machines at that age, and still am not). But from what I remember, it was an enjoyable experience.    

14^tH oct 2003

We drove to Yorkshire on the Way we went to Lunch in a pub at Stanford. then we drove to a village called Haworth Where the bronte Sisters lived and we stayed in there docters House and we Had dinner at the White Horse inn.

Self-explanatory. I have only a vague recollection of the Bronte sister’s house, and the little town nearby where the doctor’s house was. The main impression is that it was a fairly cold and bleak part of England.

15 oct 2003[15]

that morning We went to a church and looked at the grave stones the bronte sisters House and we bougHt some and then when we came back we got wheel clamped and that cost my dad 40 pounds! and we drove around Yorkshire and went to a Abbey but it was Shut and we walked to it and took a picture of it

and drove to york and stayed at a place called Avondale guest house and we Had indian for dinner.

Don’t remember the wheel clamping, though I like the exclamation mark.

16 Oct 2003

We walked on the york walls. and then we went to jorvik viking centre. We went on a ride throw time and and it Had the real smells. Then we Went to a boaring Old church called york minster. And then we went to the york Dungeon and it was scray and we didn’t go to the one in EdinburgH because my dad didn’t Want to and Miranda and my dad went to the one in London then we went to the york castle museam and they Had pretend streets and shops like the olden days. and rooms.

I love this bit: “We went on a ride throw time [sic] and it Had the real smells”. Not strictly a non-sequitur, so theoretically fine, yet at the same time extremely bizarre-sounding. I guess one just learns not to write such disjointed and imprecise sentences as one matures. In a way, I think this literary conditioning is kind of tragic. There’s a certain poetry in the austerity and primitiveness of that phrasing. (If you are too thick to parse it, what I meant was the ride included authentic historical aromas).

In general, I remember being really intoxicated by the historical sites in York – even leaving aside intoxication by fumes. The bloody, bawdy and bellicose history of the North of England was just so much more appealing to me than the refined, fey, poncy history of the monuments I had encountered in France. I easily found myself imagining living in the Dark Ages, and the crude stone architecture from the period really stirred me for some reason. The image of standing kneedeep in rank, faecal muck, surrounded by mudsmeared peasants and big, redoubtable, setaceous, prognathous men, or warring other tribes with such warriors, as blood spattered on faces or spurted and erupted into the thick, foggy air, or roaming across endless moors and marshland – I don’t know, there was just something really heady about the whole thing. It seems I also had this weird kind of Naziish, pseudoDarwinist belief that, because of my pale skin and white hair, the cold and grey marshlands of the North of England were where I “truly belonged” in some deep, transcendental sense. This sense of harmony with the land and the environment was only intensified in Scotland, because it was there in particular that my ancestors were from (or so I believed at the time).

Anyway, despite this intoxication with the history of the North of England, you can see that I didn’t exactly appreciate visiting York Minster. It wasn’t York Minster’s fault, of course. The problem was that I had already become totally and utterly sick of Cathedrals back in France, and, by this point, I had reached such a stage of exasperation that I even felt the need to declare my disaffection in my journal.

I describe York Dungeon as “scray” (meaning “scary”, of course), but the truth is that it was far worse than “scray” at the time. Far, far worse than scary. It wasn’t even just “disturbing”. The only possible way to describe would be that it was bloodcurdingly, bonerattlingly, goosebumpingly terrifying. Positively traumatic. I remember that I walked in with a certain trepidation in my breast, particularly as the entranceway darkened and spooky noises rang out from the tenebrous aether. But nothing could prepare me for what happened next, in the room.

The room is seared into my memory. I can even hear the sounds right now, and see the macabre horrors being played out before my innocent, crystalline blue eyes.

A burlesque carnival of Medieval savagery. A man screaming as he is gored by rats. Mutilated bodies everywhere. Too many words starting with “Dis” – Dismemberment, disembowelment, dystrophy, disgorgement, dysentery. Shrinking from the horror. This is hell. This is hell itself. Telling myself it’s not real, but it looks real, it is real. This was once the world. Squeezing dad’s hand, burying head in his warm, fleshy belly. The meat inside. All is meat. We are all meat. The horror. The horror.

As soon as I was in there, something changed inside me. I never fully recovered.

Strangely, as soon as I finish (briefly) mentioning this visit to the Dungeon in my journal, I start talking about stuff that happened many days later. This is making me wonder whether these later entries were written postholiday, when I was back in Wahroonga. I think it’s possible they might have been, because I do remember getting a little bored of the whole documentary enterprise, and at the same time I know that my dad was very keen that I do actually complete a record of the trip. It’s important that you know that, nonexistent audience.   

I think we probably did visit the York Castle Museum on the same day we visited the York Dungeon, and I seem to recall enjoying the sensation of having been transported back in time, to another world with streets. And rooms.

17 Oct 2003

and we went back to the york Castle museam because we didn’t finish it and then we drove to the Roman Wall and the Roman fort in Housesteades on the way to ScotLand

and then We stayed in EdinburgH in a really big place

I remember the drive to Scotland better than I remember most things from this holiday. I remember thinking deep thoughts as I stared into the blackness of the cold night, many thousands of miles away from my home; I remember the road we spent a lot of time on was very windy; I remember passing the requisite sign that said “Welcome to Scotland” (or something to that effect); I remember the journey was approximately seven hours; finally, I (seem to) remember that a deer bounded in front of our car at one point, and was momentarily dazzled by our headlights, almost as if it were a deer in the headlights (geddit).

The hotel in Edinburgh truly was massive, stretching out over an entire floor of the apartment building. It was incredibly capacious, so opulent, and stunningly slick, sleek, spick and span. In my mind’s eye, I see this absurdly large, black-and-white-tiled space that looked as if it has emerged straight out of a catalogue, along with a bunch of other cool features. When we got there, I remember I was truly blown away by the majesty of the abode, and began running around in a frenzy of excitement.

Unfortunately, I think it was bedtime soon after, and I’m not sure whether the place had a TV.

18 oct 2003

we went to EdinburgH castle

We saw the crown jewels of Scotland

Afterwards we went to a pub and watched some rugby and we went to the museum of scotland. We drove HalFway up Arthurs seat then Walked the rest and we could see the wHole of EdinburgH.

19 Oct 2003

We went to Falkirk and tried to find Aitken Ancestors. we found the Toomstone of some Aitkens and before We Went to LinLithgow castle but it was shut so we walked around it and went in the church

and then we drove to stirling and we went to stirling castle and saw my sisters friend. And then we drove to Aberfoule and we Heard an owl and I was scaerd so I slept with my dad

After I returned from this trip, I used to adore playing that Age of Empires campaign where you are trying to defend Falkirk for as long as you can before the reinforcements arrive, whereupon you get to control William Wallace and his small but fearless band of warriors, and the quest immediately becomes about twenty times easier. Incidentally, it was possibly this day, the 19^th of October, that we stopped off at a bookstore somewhere in rural Scotland and I successfully petitioned my mum to buy me some pocketsize, hardcover narrative books about the lives of Scottish heroes. I’ve just fetched the three of these that I can find now. They’re fairly advanced books for a year 1 kid, because they’re all almost entirely text – although they are radically attenuated histories (approximately 30 A5 pages in font-size 14). One is The Story of Bonnie Prince Charlie, another is The Story of Robert Bruce and the third is The Story of Rob Roy. All of them have a yellow £1.00 sticker attached to their front cover despite the official retail price on the back being £1.50. (Clearly, they were marked down and I was doing the bookstore a favour by buying them). I have the distinct impression that I also had a book about William Wallace from the same series (and Google tells me that there is a William Wallace book in the same series). Indeed, unless I’m mistaken, I recall being most fond of the William Wallace book, and revering that hero of Scottish folklore the most.

Anyway, I think I read all of the books as we meandered around the rugged hinterland of Scotland in our car. They were very enjoyable, and because of my weird Nazi essentialist racial beliefs, I remember that I kept thinking the whole time that, since I had the same blood, I could have been one of these heroes, and maybe one of the people in these stories was just like me, and maybe their actions are just like the ones I would have taken. It’s hard to explain the dynamics of these thoughts looking back, but I do remember that I was constantly pondering these strange things about my Scottishness and my ancestors and the nobility of Scottishness in general, as well as mulling over my own nascent heroism and all sorts of other weird stuff. They just seem like loopy thoughts to have, but at that age the sense of oneness and ancestral connection I felt to these Scottish heroes of yore really fortified the books’ power and impact on me. Rational thoughts are infinitely duller than Nazi essentialist ones. I was much happier then.

I remember Stirling quite well, perhaps because of the incredibly fortuitous event of encountering my sister’s formerly Scottish friend in Stirling (it is a small world, after all). I remember we were walking along this really busy, noisy and vibrant cobblestone boulevard when it happened. There was a guy blasting his bagpipes, and possibly spruikers of various kinds, and maybe performers, and vendors, and way up above us all was this immense, towering, stone castle, with magnificent turrets, spires and crenellations. And then we saw the girl whom Miranda always played with at after-school care, and there were a lot of shocked looks and niceties exchanged. Eventually, we moved on.

Unless I’m confusing Stirling Castle with another, near the top there were some really cool arrowslits or “embrasures”, and I imagined myself firing many arrows through them to hold off the hordes of sanguinary invaders before they stormed and looted the castle and abducted all our fair maidens.

20 Oct 2003

I went for a walk in the forest Next to loch And then we drove to Oban and on the way we Had a picnic and then we got there and there where Lots of Teddys and we Had indian for dinner

I allude to “loch” here. I’m not quite sure what I’m talking about. Maybe it was on this day that we visited Loch Ness – except I don’t exactly remember walking by it. I thought we only drove past it.

Anyhow, what’s more important about this entry is the detail of the “Teddys”. In the entry, I say that there were “Lots of Teddys”, but I really should have said multitudes, scores, platoons, legions, armies… in short, there were a hell of a lot. As soon as we walked in this hotel, I remember that we were struck by two things: a musky, pungent aroma of lavender and oldlady mothballs; and teddies. There were quite literally teddies everywhere. Every corner, every shelf, every nook, cranny, alcove, niche, recess, every square inch of blue pastel wall – all was adorned, festooned and ornamented with teddies. Teddies, teddies, teddies.

“Gee, the proprietor of this hotel must really like teddies,” we said.

I can still see the teddies in my mind’s eye. I walk up the stairs and there are yet more. Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by those fluffy, caramel things. I cannot escape. They are closing in on me. I am drowning.

21 Oct 2003

We went SHopping and then we fed scary swans on the beach

Then we court the car ferry to mull

We drove down to Another ferry place and we went to Iona

we Went to the Abbey And the Nunnery Then we court the ferry back to mull and we   to the 1^st priministers grave and then we went on a road that had bunny and dears

Can you believe it? This is the last entry I have in the fucking journal. That’s it. That’s the sumtotal of my documentations. We still had at least another week before the holiday was over, but I truncated my entries out of sheer laziness. Jesus Christ was I a fucking layabout – a fucking wastrel if ever I knew one. Nothing has changed. No self-control. No discipline. Fuck.

Anyway, the swans really were scary. They were really aggressive – in fact, positively truculent. We were on this dismal beach late in the afternoon, and they basically went for me, snapping and quacking and flapping. Symbols of purity my ass. Speaking of ass, I’d like to rub shit all over their white downs. Fuckwits.

A sudden burst of anger. Easily controlled.

The only shopping I remember doing was buying this really awesome board game which featured confectionary as the reward for correct answers. It was a pretty clever gimmick, and they obviously had some pretty potent preservatives to keep the lollies edible (or maybe they just scrimped on that and the confectionary was actually mouldy and putrid). Anyhow, thanks to my silver tongue, I managed to persuade my mother to buy it. Many weeks later, we would play it. Sadly, I don’t think it was nearly as fun as it had portended at the time. And I don’t think we played it twice.

On another note, do you remember the diary entry in which I recounted our voyage across the border into Scotland – the one where I described the deer crossing the road in front of us? The zoological detail in this entry is making me think that my memory of seeing a deer on the road was temporally misplaced. Sorry about that.

So what else happened on this holiday? Well, I think most of the rest of it was spent in London, doing all the classic urban tours, seeing all the important sites – basically being the consummate tourist. More intriguingly, I also remember that every time we went to a wishing well (which I seem to recall happened bizarrely often), my wish would always be to receive a PlayStation 2.[16] Every single time, I would pray to the almighty God that he’d for once deliver on one of his promises and grant this little bedevilled rascal a PS2. I didn’t think it was really that much to ask. Come on, God, just one PS2. Don’t be a miser. Don’t be niggardly! I just want some divine intervention, man.

Much, much later, He would deliver. But it took him way too long for me to see it as a miracle (meaning He didn’t deliver at all; Fate did instead, or perhaps Providence).

What else? I don’t know. I did things. I enjoyed myself. It continued to be fun. Our hotel room in London was dark and moody, and had this eerie oil painting. We used the metro quite a lot.

Actually, there were a few really memorable things that happened in this last phase of the trip. I can’t believe I almost forgot them.

When he was organising the trip, I think my dad always planned that he and I would attend a Premier League game in London, preferably one featuring Liverpool (the Premier League team he supported, and therefore the one I did (though not with overflowing enthusiasm)). He rapidly discovered, however, that it was really difficult to book tickets to games. In order to even secure a ticket for one game in London featuring Liverpool, he ended up having to sign me up as a member of Fulham, even though that was the team we were going to be barracking against!

I remember it was a really long voyage from our residence to Craven Cottage. We had to catch a train quite early, as I recall, and when we finally got to the right station, we still had to walk rather a long distance on foot. On this ambulatory journey towards the stadium, we encountered a vendor selling Liverpool merchandise, and my dad bought me a Liverpool scarf.

When we finally got to our seats way up in the nosebleed section, it ended up being kind of awkward, because we were surrounded by Fulham fans. In cognisance of the dark history of fan malefaction and rioting at soccer matches, my dad advised me not to wear my scarf. This was probably sensible. I could easily have been set upon by some loyal Fulham ruffians or derelict Chavs (or both). But even though it was prudent, this forced suppression kind of deflated the whole experience, and was rather disheartening. Effectively, we couldn’t display our emotions.

I think the game was a 1-0 victory to Liverpool, in the end. It was ok.

Another major event of our trip in London was attending the musical production of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on the West End. Notably, there was something of the melodrama (as it were) about the acquisition of the tickets for this show. Despite my dad being the only one in our family who wasn’t coming, he had been the one to purchase the tickets, and it was done at the last minute. On account of our tardiness, when my dad arrived at the demountable ticket booth in the street to get some tickets, he was solemnly informed by the man serving him that there were only two adjacent seats available, and the third person would have to sit elsewhere. He regarded this news as somewhat of a setback, but he resolved to press ahead with the transaction, as long as he could be guaranteed a third seat that was reasonably close to the other two. He figured it would be fine if mum was sitting only a couple of rows behind the kids, but any farther away than that might not be very fun for anybody, and possibly a bit of a risk. The salesman assured him that the third ticket was indeed nearby, and insisted it in the face of questions. When my dad was satisfied, he quickly sealed the three-figure purchase. We now had our tickets.

If I remember correctly, I was the only person with him when he bought these. I also seem to recall that I had been sceptical of the man’s claim that the three seats were proximate, especially given that the letter co-ordinate of the third one was L against the E of the other two (or something like that). But my dad was quite tired and irritable at the time, and the man’s repudiation of my dad’s questions seemed to have convinced him that he was not being swindled. However, when my dad and I arrived home and we explained the ticket situation to my mum, she immediately smelt something fishy in the co-ordinate incongruity. I then interjected to say that my own impression was that the man could have been trying to deceive dad, and his phraseology wasn’t exactly categorical. It was at that point that my dad started to fume, as his adrenaline levels shot up in front of our eyes. We knew what it meant: he was in one of his furious, hyperstressed moods.

“Don’t tell me. The bastard. The fuckwit. I’m going to go give him a piece of my mind.”

Soon he was off, fermenting bile to spew at the man at the booth. In minutes, he would be fulminating against the young man’s flagrant deceit and moral degeneracy.

Sadly, I don’t think the decision to avenge the injustice helped cool him down, and it’s not as if he was able to bully the salesman into giving us a better deal. It was ultimately futile.

When we arrived at the musical itself, it was kind of upsetting for me and Miranda to be separated  from our own mother, and the spectacle itself didn’t really compensate. I mean, what the fuck was the point of Shitty Shitty Bang Bang anyway? Stupidest fucking concept ever.

What? The name’s not meant to be a joke? You’re shitting me, right?

We also visited the British Museum during our stay, which was probably nice. Truth be told, I don’t really remember what it was like, but I know I got a couple of Egyptian-themed souvenirs from the gift shop. I’m sure a lot of exhibits fascinated me.

I know we also visited the Tower of London, unsurprisingly. I don’t really remember much of this either, but I’m sure I would have been enthralled by its morbidity.

One other memory I have of London was that the supermarket had pigeon in it. I found that mildly disturbing. Pigeons. In the supermarket. On one of those meat trays. Plasticwrapped pigeon carcasses. Red, plump, cardiac.

And that seems like an appropriate note on which to end my account of this odyssey. I hope you had a good time reading it!

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[1] That was more about his parents than him. Oh well. I guess it gives you a sense of his genes.

[2] You should know now that I’ll only make a cursory effort to mimic the formatting and variable font size of the journal, although I will copy the spelling and I’ll try to represent my erratic capitalisation (incidentally, I doubt I intended to capitalise half the letters I did, and often it’s only the shape that’s off, not the size of the letter).

Fortunately, the spelling is pretty good for a six-year-old. I can see that I had absorbed the morphologies of many of the idiosyncratic and unphonetic words of English. However, the quality and creativity of the writing itself is pretty average, I think. It’s quite clear that I wasn’t very interested in telling a story, or evoking an atmosphere; it’s just plain documentation with a couple of matter-of-fact judgements thrown in here and there.  

[3] What a strange thing to say. How can “gloss” wear off an abstract concept like a “plane trip”?

[4] No fucking idea why I wrote “yt” instead of “th”. An aneurysm, perhaps?

[5] Somehow forgot how to spell croissants.

[6] Caught between spelling chateau and cathedral, I suspect.

[7] Although it was only through serendipitous circumstance that we discovered it at all, since we didn’t plan to visit it beforehand.

[8] Not sure if that’s what I’ve actually written. I don’t know what “sarlat” is.

[9] If you are not a boy or an immature man, chances are you won’t understand how thrilling this is. Incidentally, the world “thrilling” used to mean “skin piercing” – hence “thrilled to bits”. Incidentally, our language is rich with violent metaphors.  

[10] Up to you whether you want to pronounce that word in the French or English way.

[11] This word is heavily slanted and my transcription may be wrong.

[12] Somehow forgot how to spell dessert and Orangina.

[13] Was wondering if any future Ancient Greek scholars who happen to stumble upon this cesspit of a book can verify if my proposed formal name for the condition, “Prosopozografikiphobia”, actually makes any sense. Much obliged.

[14] Meant to be “witch”, whi[t?]ch you may have inferred.

[15] Advanced warning: this entry is highly incoherent.

[16] I think that behaviour might even have begun in France.