E-Book, Englisch, 166 Seiten
ISBN: 978-3-99048-105-9
Verlag: novum pro Verlag
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Wasserzeichen (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
Aimed at children, this story is entertaining for adults and children alike.
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Chapter one So that’s it then! I’ve just recently had my tenth birthday, an event that I try not to think back to. So ten! Double figures. I guess I’m not a youngster anymore. I’m ten! TEN!!!!! The best years of my life have gone – in a flash. I hardly noticed them slipping away. Ten! What is there to look forward to now? Just the long, slow path to old age. Where did the years go? Yes. That just about sums me up. One of the world’s greatest pessimists. Glass half empty, that’s me. Grass is always greener etc. etc. For a start there’s the name. Tom Thompson. I mean, imaginative or what? I can picture them at the maternity hospital holding me in their arms and saying, “We don’t need books of names. We’ve come up with something original that he’ll grow to love. We’ll call him Tom.” Did they ever put the two names together and think that Tom Thompson is not a name I would grow to love. I suppose I should be lucky that it is Tom and not Thomas. That would be an even worse burden to have to carry round. Of course I get called all the names – Tom Tom, Tommy Gun, Misery Guts, mainly from Dad that one, but the one that seems to have stuck is Tommo. I don’t mind that. Tommo. It has a ring to it, so I’m happy with that. Well, when I say happy, let’s not get carried away. Let’s just say that it makes me feel a little less miserable. So apart from the name, why else is my life so dark? Let’s look at the evidence. First of all, I’m an only child. The strain of thinking up my name must have been too much for my parents to have to go through with it again. No brothers or sisters to play with, to share things with, to laugh and joke with, but mainly to blame things on. If anything goes wrong or gets broken it’s me that gets the blame. Okay, that’s usually because it is my fault, but it would be nice, once in a while to say, “Oh no, it wasn’t me. It was Tim.” If I had a brother he’s bound to be called Tim. It’s that imagination thing again. Then there’s the friends, or lack of them. Sure, I have people at school that I know and hang about with. Yes, I have a group of colleagues I walk to and from school with. But would I call them friends? No, not really. I couldn’t see me inviting any of them round for tea, although that would make my mum the happiest person in the world. “Why don’t you invite a friend over for tea?” That’s her daily question. My daily answer should be, “Because, Mum, I don’t have any.” But that would probably turn her into a blubbering wreck. The people I know like to play football and charge around or play on their violent computer games. I don’t like any of that. I like … trains! Yes, laugh. Call me sad, anorak, train spotter. I don’t care. I just love trains. I love the look of them, the sound of them, the smell of them. What do I want to be when I grow up? Yes, a train driver. I dream of driving trains. I play at driving trains. I imagine people’s admiring looks as I speed past. “Aaah,” they’ll say, “there goes Tommo the train driver. What a man!” Maybe that’s a bit far-fetched but I can but dream. So that’s what I look forward to in this autumn of my life, I am ten you know, driving trains. Then there’s the main reason why my life is like it is, so full of despair. My parents. To be fair Mum is okay. She’s Mum. She’ll do anything for anybody. That’s one of the problems because it usually involves me. She helps with charities. All charities. Doesn’t matter what it’s for. If it’s got the word charity anywhere in its information, Mum’s in. Can’t tell you how many weekends I’ve spent stood outside some well-known high street store with a tin trying to collect money for endangered mealworms in Central Africa or against the destruction of dandelions in South America. If it’s a charity, Mum’s there … with me. “Look sad and pitiful, Tom.” Well, that’s easy. And she fusses. “Put your gloves on and wrap your scarf tight. Button your coat up. Have you got your thick socks on?” Me pointing out that if it’s that cold I shouldn’t really be stood in the street waving a tin at people has no effect. But, apparently, according to my colleagues, that’s what Mum’s do. They fuss. It’s just something else I’ll have to put up with, I suppose. Then there’s Dad. Now, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether, although why anyone would keep fish in a kettle is beyond me. Must make the tea taste awful. Dad is fine when he’s at work. No problem at all. Hardly know he’s there, mainly because he isn’t. But when he’s at home! You remember that guy Midas? Everything he touched turned to gold. Well, Dad is similar to Midas, except that everything he touches turns into a disaster. He fixed the washing machine, which immediately blew up and sent soapy water gushing all over the kitchen floor. Oh, we did laugh. Well, I did. Mum’s reaction was rather different. I never realised she knew such words. They certainly weren’t very charitable words. Then he put some shelves up. They turned out to be fine until you put something on them. Hours to put up, seconds to fall down and bring half the wall with them. And don’t mention his shed! The worst thing about Dad is the fact that he insists on doing things as a family. That seem okay to you? It’s what families usually do. Sort of cosy and nice. But with Dad it’s a major operation doing anything. It all has to be planned out to the minutest of details. And then you can guarantee that it will all go pear shaped. How you know it’s shaped like a pear is beyond me. The words to put fear into even the strongest of creatures is when Dad says, “I’ve planned something for us all to do together.” “I’ve planned something for us all to do together,” said Dad, cheerfully, on that fateful Sunday morning. I could picture goldfish leaping out of their bowls all over the country on hearing that news while cats threw themselves into rivers. Mum sighed. I was more dramatic. I buried my head in my hands. “It’ll be great,” continued Dad unaware of the impending doom felt by his audience. “What is it?” asked Mum with a definite lack of enthusiasm. This obvious apathy was missed by Dad who went on. “When I was a boy we went on a great holiday to North Wales.” No response from us. “In a caravan.” Dad seemed to miss my clearly audible groan and continued. “It was great. The site had everything.” Not electricity, surely. Not when Dad was a boy. “Amusements, shops, a super park and it was right by a fantastic beach. Golden Sands it was called. I’ve been looking at it on the internet and last night I went on the website and booked a caravan for the week.” My groan was even more audible this time. Mum looked just the same as she did when the washing machine blew up. “You’ve done what? Didn’t you think of consulting me first?” “You’d only have said no,” replied Dad. Good for Mum I say. “Anyway, it’s too late now. It’s all booked. We go on Saturday. I’ve taken a week off work specially.” “Next week,” said Mum. “What about my charity work?” Good one, Mum. “Charity starts at home,” quipped Dad. One all. “Besides, this site has a charity shop. And it has a miniature railway.” Two-one. Game, set and match Dad. So that was it. Dad had booked a holiday. In a caravan. In North Wales. What could possibly go wrong? The packing. That’s what could go wrong. Mum went into a frenzy. I know for a fact that Mum has wardrobes, cupboards and drawers full of clothes. Or so Dad says. He mentions it a lot. In fact, if Mum gave half her clothes away to charity she could save all the mealworms and dandelions single handed. But, no. She was adamant that she would need more. “It’s a holiday,” she repeated over and over. “I need holiday clothes.” Don’t ask me what the difference between holiday clothes and ordinary clothes are. I’m sure that there will be a definition in some obscure dictionary somewhere. “And a new bikini.” That did it. To save me from thoughts that would turn milk sour I left and decided to sort my own packing out. It seemed easy enough till Mum turned up and stated that we were going for a week and not just one day. Sarcasm, Mum. Not a good quality. So that was my packing done for me. I only hoped that she didn’t expect me to carry the case. As I’ve said, I’m passed my best and carrying that case would certainly have finished me off. She could have entered it as one of the rounds in The Strongest Man in the World competition. Even then I think that most of them would have struggled to complete the hundred metre course. Dad had done slightly better in Mum’s eyes. He’d managed to pack enough for three days. Once again Mum took over and so that was his packing done. To make up for our packing inadequacies Mum decided to take enough for three months. She’d need a separate caravan just for her clothes. Dad made a comment about only having a car and not an articulated lorry. I thought it was amusing. Mum didn’t. Then, of course, staying in a caravan we needed food for the week. Again, Mum’s idea of what was needed for a week differed greatly to Dad’s, but we’ve learnt that Mum is always right, if you wanted a quiet life, that is. And me and Dad did. And her choice of food! She’d bought...
