I said recently that I gave up trying to gain my Dad’s approval for anything when I was 12 well that’s not strictly true, at the age of 18 I made one huge effort by applying for a commission in the RAF. To be honest I didn’t expect to even get an interview but at least I would have tried and he seemed happy with that so we were both a bit startled when a letter arrived asking me to go to the recruitment office in Guildford for an interview and to take the aptitude tests. That was the easy bit and I was told on the spot that I’d passed everything so far and all that remained was the medical report.
Ah yes, the medical report. That, I was pretty certain, would be the point at which the whole thing fell apart. You’ve probably gathered by now that I wasn’t a very healthy child and things hadn’t got much better in my teens so against was a near fatal bout of pneumonia at 8 which had left a small but permanent scarred are on my right lung, a well above average number of days off school from colds that always turned into chest infections, barred from playing rugby at 15 because of an undiagnosed but troublesome knee problem and oh, let’s not forget the amusing overdose and the subsequent stay in a mental hospital. For was um… nothing, unless you count not actually being dead.
I wasn’t a bit surprised when the thanks but no thanks letter arrived and just handed it over to my parents after the no thanks bit, I was actually disappointed what had started out as a way to gain approval had somehow become genuine ambition. They read the letter in much greater detail and pointed out that the only negative medical point was the knee thing.
Nil Desperandum might well have been my Mother’s motto as it was she who suggested that I write to our MP pointing out that the knee problem hadn’t been fully diagnosed yet and might well be an adolescent issue that would improve with age, as a late developer I wasn’t any where near fully mature, I was the only person of my age I knew who didn’t shave daily but once a fortnight whether I needed to or not. Our MP happened to be the brother of a family friend, the Barrister who’d helped Mum with her divorce after our biological father abandoned us and then threatened to sue for custody of me. I duly wrote, showed them the letter to prove that I really was trying (what a little appeaser I was!) and waited for a polite but unhelpful reply. What came through the post was a really kind letter from the MP with a copy of his letter not to the MoD but to the Minister of Defense in person addressing him by his christian name, telling of a young, enthusiastic constituent who, he felt, should be given a more rigorous medical examination before being rejected losing the RAF a potentially excellent officer.
The parents were thrilled and, for the first time in what felt like forever, genuinely proud of me, I was completely speechless. Two weeks later an enormous envelope arrived containing an appointment at the RAF Hospital in London, a rail warrant and a medical questionnaire that took nearly a week to complete.
I’ll tell you about that trip in the next post but in the meantime if you think you can guess why I didn’t eventually become a proud wearer of RAF Blue , answers on a postcard, or the comments box please
Love
The universe is a strange place, and often our best plans go not as we plan but in a different direction.
Takes us back when it happens doesn’t it?
Best wishes,
Scottie
It is a strange place indeed and the directions we end up going in are sometimes even stranger. These things take me back but I have to be careful of getting stuck in a “what if?” loop
Love
Mac
The what ifs are disturbing, but thankfully for me, I have reached a point where I like who and what am. If I had been raised by my real dad I would not have had the abuse, but also may not have met and lived so long with Ron. Now maybe the universe would have still brought us together, but I wouldn’t want to take that chance. So I don’t worry about the what ifs anymore. The only what if I get caught on is what if we do @@@@@ when he gets home from work.
Starting over, going to school and going into a field I know nothing about had no fear this time, only excitement. The thrill of seeing Ron so happy with what I was doing was the support I never had as a child. So maybe I am living my childhood now? Wow, I never thought of that until I typed it. Maybe I should think on that, am I living as an adult teenager now?
Bye Mac, have to go think. Thanks for everything. Oh yes, I would love your thoughts also.
A friend always,
Scottie
Scottie
That’s a what if I also enjoy and have no worries over
You make an an interesting point there and that’s how I sometimes feel myself. When I started work on my book and dealing with some very heavily repressed memories it did feel like childhood and as I’m in the process of going to University at last the adult teenager concept does make a great deal of sense. In many ways I never really “grew up” and find the behaviour of most of my own age group horribly old. Having support now when I had none in those early years means that I can be free to be myself in a way I never could then. It’s all quite exciting!
You also touch on a very big question which all hinges on the first what if of all, what if I’d told my Mother I was being molested? Had I done that it’s likely that none of my life to date would have happend and I’ve have followed a very different path, the thing is that I wouldn’t have met Gary and that doesn’t bear thinking about.
I’m very happy to have you as a friend
Love
Mac