Friday, 6 January 2012

Almost A Real Person

I now have two jobs, a roof over my head (albeit temporary) and a bank account.  I am nearly real.  All that remains is to register my realness with the local commune.

It feels like climbing.  Now my only experience of climbing is a two hour taster session up those indoor walls with large bits of chewing gum stuck to them, but bear with me.  Climbing had always been something I could not do.  The embarrassment of being the only person who couldn't climb stays with me.  Oh I remember the summer of 1972, trying to climb up on those garages, with someone pushing my arse from underneath and a couple of people hauling at my arms. 

However, all harnessed-up and with a complete but comfortingly heavy stranger attached to the other end of my rope, I did climbing last year.  Colourful blob to blob, like a dangling mountain goat.  I would not say I scrambled up the wall, but I did it.  And each foothold felt both precarious and progressive, and then there was the top of the wall and me looking down grinning. 

Someone who isn't me:

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