Figs of the Imagination

(On being Tricked into Having his Tonsils Removed)

“Trick ye? Whut else wir we gonnae dae tae git yese intae yon hospital onnway. I ask ye? D’ye think we could hae jist said: Now, son, jist get ye intae yon hospital and have some felly wi’ great muckle pliers jist yank yon tonsils oota yer heed? Naw, ye’d a run fer the hills and thought we wuz a bunch o’ daft gowks, that’s what! Naw, laddie, we hud tae trick ye or ye’d nivver hae gone there wi’oot we conked ye on the heed and drug ye thayre. But, ye huv tae believe me, ….it was a’ fer yer own gude, ye’ve gottae believe me.”

And there it was, right out in the open! They had lied to me and tricked me, all of them, and, they claimed to have “done it for my own good.” I had not just lost my tonsils. I had lost a lot more. Gone was my unconditional belief and trust in adults in general and parents in particular.

I would never again take as gospel anything told me, with the utmost apparent sincerity, by a parent or person in authority, especially when accompanied by a wink. They were all, I concluded, liars, just like the rowdy kids at school. Henceforth, I would hear alarm bells every time someone started a sentence with the expression “Trust me,” or, especially, ended it with “it’ll be over before you know it and it really won’t hurt a bit.”

(ON DIRE PRIVATE SCHOOL MEALS)

"Yes, it is beef, or something that once lived, stew, grayish-beige lumps of it floating in the gravy, redolent with almost tangible, near visible aromatic wraiths of Oxo or Bovril fortification. Amid this float the inevitable carrot and turnip lumps. The plate is proffered, almost reluctantly, to receive the standard ladleful of this concoction, which, of course, refuses to stay in one spot, but engulfs the plate. It is followed by an almost tennis serve of mashed potato, which strikes the plate with a thud, sending gravy shrapnel all around. The amorphous serving person, garbed in food-soiled and shapeless white outfit, and who may or may not be guilty of this preparation, looks up at the recipient through gravy-stained glasses and from beneath tight hair net, to signify that nothing further is forthcoming, but almost as if to dare the victim to request more or complain. Bellies may be rumbling and teenage boys may be indiscriminate in their consumption, but there are no Oliver Twists here. The line moves on—on towards the drinks and, diffidently, to the sweets, which are much anticipated by sugar-craving boys, but which seldom approach their dessert dreams. This time, it is, horror of horrors, tapioca pudding, with a few grudging raisins, which will be the target of comments regarding its resemblance to frog-spawn or, once tasted, regrets that it were not."