A Present’s Perspective

Dark. Darkness everywhere.

Silence.

An intrusive fingering now and again.

‘Its just another fucking book.’

‘This one feels like stationary.’

‘Oh because I really want another protractor!’

Dark. Darkness again.

When will this suspense end?

Blinding light. Tearing. I’m being undressed. Revealed. I’m naked. Nude. Prying little eyes. Fat little fingers turning me over.

‘What is it?’

It? Ouch. That hurts. ‘It’ is a new bike helmet. THE new bike helmet. Both stylish and safe. Both glow in the dark-traffic-friendly and so-fantastic-it-will-fit-incongruously-with-any-outfit-fashionable.

That’s me

‘But I don’t want a bloody bike helmet,’ whines the voice. ‘Only the nerds wear helmets.’

Rejection. It hurts. It’s cold. Even from the fat kid. Why doesn’t he want me?

Without indicating, he throws me away from him. I’m spinning now. The world’s rotating like a kitchen blender. Flying through the air, I fall into a pile of shredded wrapping paper.

Safe.

I’m quickly joined by a Casio calculator both delicate-enough-for-complex-logarithms and yet hardy-enough-for-the-average-schoolboy-abuse, and also some socks which to be honest are a bit shit. My inbuilt headlight lurches as I’m yanked suddenly skywards.

Socks to be you right now

‘Don’t worry guys,’ I scream silently, ‘I’ll protect you.’ Which is fitting because I’m a safety device. And funny too. The right sock appreciates it. The left one makes some crap joke about cushioning our fall. No one laughs.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask. Casio cracks a blinder of a joke about ‘running some calculations’ which has us in stitches but it’s mainly nervous tension as we really don’t know where we are going.

A car boot slams just after a stunner of a beanie hat is thrown in. I’m talking eight or nine out of ten. Really shapely. Really fit. Her name is North Face or at least that’s what I assume but before I can get her head size the left sock starts talking to her. That sweaty wanker. It turns out that she heard from her friend Jake that we are going to Santa’s grotto.

Soon to be protecting a certain famous head

This is bad news for me. I’m a top of the range product. A real quality piece. I require daily oiling. Well maybe not require but I still enjoy it. How am I going to get this anywhere other than a stable, middle-class, mortgage owning family of roughly 2.1 members? Casio looks nervous too. He’s stopped making graphic words appear on his screen though he could just be trying to impress North Face.

Oh god, I’m being wrapped up again.

Wait, what is this? Newspaper? What am I fish and chips? This is outrageous! I demand quality wrapping paper! Something from Liberty or at least fucking John Lewis. Thank God it’s the Mail not the Guardian.

The light is fading now. I’m being bricked up like a Vestal Virgin but not even with a final meal/oil rub. Chinks of light are being cut off. Darker.

Darkness.

Black.