Wittingslow days

Watching my six year old on the chair-o-plane, feet extended, arms aflame in her red spray jacket, I am transported back to my Wittingslow days and the girl with the hook nose that I chased. I was buzzing, drugged out on the fourteen years I’d piled one on top of the other and the cocktail of hormones that was swimming like a crazy deep sea fish inside me come surfacing now to shock and woo and repel and amaze! I wore tight jeans and Miller shirts with threads of silver, threads of gold, worked as a glassboy in the pub for pocket dosh to spend on rides and throw away on everybody wins carnival side alley coconut shies. I rode the Cha-Cha with my hook nose girl and let the centrifugal force press me close and when she came to me squealing white knuckled on the whipping bends, I let it be. Love was a stiff offshore breeze and her hair blown across my face. I could have leapt from the buckled in padded Cha-Cha chair like I did from swings when I was eight and taken her flying with me. Instead, I waited while the tattooed gap-toothed carni man lifted the bar for us. On the chair-o-plane, my daughter beams and waves and goes round and round again never tiring of the scenery, the tinny circus music, the coloured carni lights here at the very beginning of her Wittingslow days.


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