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Make Believe

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As a child there were many things I would fantasise about morphing into when I reached the never-never land of the not so grown ups.

Here is a list of just some of them.

 

 

A Charlie’s Angel.  I was a ‘Farrah’ in case you were wondering.

A Secret Agent.  Can’t help being nosey.

Doris Day as Calamity Jane.  A good looking tom boy.

Toyah.  Cripes, now that is a mystery to me.

An Action Man doll. The one with the swivel eyes and the ice pick and tent.  Well why not.

A sweet shop proprietor. Or a chippy; as in fish and chippy not carpenter chippy.

Isadora Duncan.  Nice flowing dresses, but watch out for the scarf in the Bugati.

Lassie.   Lassie?

And then I got to thinking about some of the actions I took as a child to enhance my path.

Told tales.  I had a great imagination.

Ate Bonio on occasion. See ‘Lassie’ above

Ate mud.  Have you tasted my Mum’s cooking?

Played violin…badly.

Stuffed bra with terry towelling socks.  Nothing else would fit

Sulked … rather a lot

Wrote poetry.

So, what is all this self retrospection about you may ask?  Well, during my thirties I read a book which suggested that to find your life’s true purpose you should take a cue from your childhood and do the very thing or things you were good at when you were a child.

So, what was I destined to be as a grown up?  A moody, bitchy, fantasist with a penchant for dog biscuits?

Or am I supposed to relive some of my early childhood actions to find my inner purpose?

Well, looking at the list lets just say that my husband only has thin socks or thick fisherman’s socks and they are a bit chunky.  My own cooking resembles mud, so I suppose I am ticking boxes there.   I have since tried playing the violin but just ended up knocking over my wine glass.  In fact the wine stains are still on wall of our old house.  (Sorry grumpy, annoying, gazundering, buyer of house; but you had it coming).

So the only viable option from that list is writing poetry. And looking back I am not so sure it really was poetry I was writing.   During my teenager years my poetry subjects were generally sex or anorexia.   Neither of which to this day I know anything about.   The road to discovery was a lonely one, made all the more fascinating by the fact that I didn’t actually discover anything.

Crazy though it seems, after all this embarrassing soul searching, I do believe that what you are ‘into’ as a child does have a bearing on whom you really are.  Your child self is the real you exposed, the one who doesn’t yet care about what other people think.

As a child you are just acting out your authenticity, albeit in some weird ways.  Afterall, who is to say what is ‘make believe’ and what is real?

I suppose what I am trying to say is this:

Always be you and never let the flame go out.

I have made my list; now it’s your turn.

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