Volume 41 – sex ed street style
Thanks for sticking with me. Here’s my next mistake, hope you don’t mind my skipping back and to randomly without a thought for a timeline or a theme. What’s striking me as horrifying during this journey is how very long it actually takes us to actually learn something or is it only me again? Anyway, my next mistake was listening to Colleen McGlinchy.
I’m not going to lie to you, I was knocking on a bit for this kind of mistake at almost ten but as you’re getting to know me you’ll realised I can be a bit slow on and off. So, three things coincided at once; I got a brother, I got a doll for Christmas and Colleen McGlinchy gave me some very duff gen indeed.
The brother thing was the simple bit, he was just a big jumble of fragrant (in one way or another) crocheted blankets that needed pushing round in a tansad or bouncing off (yes - the right word - I was impatient to play out, the splits and gymnastics being the current faze) my mother’s orange candlewick ‘til he finally, finally gave in and dozed off - admittedly it may have been concussion.
Colleen McGlinchy was another matter. She was a pretty girl who had tricked me into gulping a tablespoon of cod liver oil on a previous occasion so I was rightly suspicious. In the backs of the rows of terraced houses, I’d just finished my Olga Korbut with a flourish when she nodded me over.
“Oi you.” She was older than me so I felt faintly honoured.
“You done ‘adolescence’ yet?”
Colleen patiently explained that pretty soon this thing was going to happen to the likes of me and the other kids in the street that would see us being ‘sorted out’. Apparently, this involved us becoming either women or men. How do you know which, I wondered and Colleen supplied me with the information that we’d get either busters or a ‘thing’ would appear between the legs to confirm the difference and seal the deal.
Squirreling myself away in my higgledy room with a packet of Spangles to digest this new revelation I started to seriously worry. I had myself already began to detect what I thought was a slight change in my hitherto pristinely demarcated undercarriage (in other words, a nice neat line - not unlike the ones dividing a laminate floor - with a podgy bit either side). To confirm my horrified suspicions, I closely inspected the contents of my doll’s frilly underwear and behold it seemed that, in my own unfrilly but bearing apples and pears pants something was indeed afoot. It needed sorting out.
If I was going to be a man I needed to know and fast.
I’ll leave you with the cringeworthy image of me sitting in our Shep’s hairy basket under the stairs and every time my mother strode past to answer the shop’s bell and serve the customer, hurriedly hitching my skirt up over my head.
“Mum, mum mummmmmm IS THIS …”
“Hello Gladys two ounce of spam is it?”
“ … NORMAL?”