All photography, artwork and text (C) David Okangba unless otherwise stated

And welcome to my autobiography extracts. I was born David Low in Queen Charlotte's hospital in Hammersmith London, on Tuesday April 22nd 1958, making me 60 years of age as of Earth Day 2018. The name change came in 2009, and is better explained in full in the autobiography. A printer by trade, I’ve found myself odd-jobbing the last forty years, while trying to get myself sorted out emotionally, and trying to find "Purpose" and a place I might actually fit in, in this lifeline. I've had a fair share of upheavals I think it fair to say, and like many others I'm sure, never quite felt invited to the party, which makes painful viewing for a sensitive soul. And this may be evident by the more "Honest" nature of the songs and these written works. So just to lead in...

(The Photo Above) Is of Babies Castle and the first home I have any memory of. The previous infant photo was also taken there. Babies Castle was located at Hawkhurst in Kent, England, and was a Barnardo’s orphanage for babies and destitute children which officially opened on 9th August 1886. This photograph dated 1959, was supplied courtesy of Joyce Saunders who was an infant nurse who worked there at my time in residence, and reprinted with her kind permission.
(The Photo Below) Was also taken within the grounds when I was aged around one and a half I should think, and quite possibly taken by infant Nurse B. who also took the first photo of me at the top of this section.(The Photo Below) Was also taken within the grounds when I was aged around one and a half I should think, and quite possibly taken by infant Nurse B. who also took the first photo of me at the top of this section.

(Text Below) Extracts and work in progress from my - as yet - unpublished autobiography. If you click on the BOLD highlights within the text, it'll lead you to MP3 song samples or a video related to that subject matter.

… The Prologue ...

I would just like to explain the reason behind my first attempt at writing a book! For several years it was always an intention to write my autobiography, without clearly knowing why! I was never in any doubt I was supposed to be heading this way, or that I should assemble a recording of shared life experiences, on what has turned out to be a companion album which I have called: David Okangba/Social Refugee: ‘Soundtrack To My Life’. I may even dare to use the term for these informed works, as a sense of “Vocation”, as I muddle through the book towards the final chapters in this year two thousand and nineteen, whilst still rounding off my dealings with the complexities of depression.

I only started to keep a diary of sorts back in nineteen-eighty-four, originally for employment duties of the time, but it soon spilled over into being a useful, if rather blunt and honest personal advisor from then on. Some may write accounts of their lives, to maybe get things down before others of dubious intent try to cash in on it, or worse still damage it. Or both! Some may write to try and justify their wrongs, others for financial gain or celebrity-seeking publicity. All I can say, is this account is attempting to be a candid one, born of social observation, my inner workings, life views and  several escapades, and I’ll always try and be as “Honest” as I am able, or allowed to be! There is much to say, and not everybody is accessible to “Reason”, or maybe my version of it! And let’s not kid ourselves either, the moment that anybody looks like they may have even just a tiny bit of success, or are able to get in front for the first time in their life, there are going to be those out there - and even close - who’ll start rootling around like truffling pigs, trying to unearth something which can cripple you! The daily newspapers are testimony to that, and we as a “Society”, continually buy into feeding that trough.

I’m saddened in a way, that I finally realise that although one may want to be truthful in what they recall or have an opinion on, one needs to be aware that there are also mischief-makers out there, who can turn truth or opinion, into a rather damaging experience. And not forgetting either, just how over the top “Political Correctness” has now become. So to try and safeguard certain people concerned more directly with parts of my life, and indeed better protect myself, I feel it may be less contentious if in places, I rename individuals or not be as graphic as I should ordinarily like regarding details. And of course, one mustn't forget the legal implication of some of the recollections, and things I’m likely to say about certain events or people either! It does annoy me, that to put forward the actual names of certain people, or even established corporate companies who have been pretty shameful, and with facts I can pretty much support, that it would still leave me open to liable or slander, or some other costly riposte. So with that in mind, it’s maybe more of a healthier experience for me regarding more precise details, if I just put in those whom I’d like to champion, or view with high praise. If it feels comfortable enough in places, I should like to mention a few by a first name for their kindness, and hopefully that doesn’t infringe too much on their privacy, and will only be those whom I remember who might be ok with that.

Due to keeping so many diaries and year folders in later years, there was a wealth of information to start with. These came essentially from my own working through of endless depressions, aims, homemade how-to-accomplish planners, feelings of desperation, and of trying to find where I might actually fit in in this life. Those entries were gleaned for essential pointers, or more specific recollection at the start of this endeavour, as I tried to forge something of a style, whatever that might be! I soon abandoned this approach, and instead started to rely more on what I could recollect from memory, which made a rather voluminous, fractured and sprawling first draft, spanning almost eight hundred pages of typed A4. Further along, I also came into possession of my Barnardo’s files, which enabled me to substantiate a few other things, and be more precise over certain dates or events, whilst also being informed of some rather debatable terminology of the time.

I guess another considered reason for putting these thoughts and views forward - apart from maybe trying to find some kind of cathartic resolution - is that I’ve now reached what I feel to be the final stretch of the road home... After battling many demons along the way, I feel there may just be others out there who can either find some solace in what I have to say through my music and words, or at the very least, know they are not always alone if they feel in any way disenfranchised from the pack. As I’ve done for almost sixty-one years…

With the constant emotional purges which have now become part of a more positive existence, my mind is frequently being swept for any lingering debris, as those limbo files become better understood and labelled! I find the older that I get, the less time I’m prepared to waste on what I may have left. So depending on where you’d like to come out, I think it makes sense to keep pruning that emotional tree. Even on a daily basis if necessary! It’s an acquired art for sure, and maybe that’s in part what this book is about, so that one can free up that time, and actually get on and enjoy “Living”! To this end the torture, despair, and those inexplicable emotional breakdowns, needed sorting through and eventually filing. I use the term filing, because I think many of us seem to think that if we’ve taken an event that’s clearly had an impact on our emotions - especially an unhealthy one - and just walked blindly away from it, or drank it through to the bottom of the bottle, that we’re actually rid of it. I now better understand that the issue rarely ever gets any further in resolve than the proximity of that drink, drug, or throwaway quip, no matter what we may try and tell ourselves. And in reality, only seems to add more short-circuits to an already fragile emotional wiring, if we can’t file it someplace where it makes sense! Especially if one happens to have a mindset planted firmly in a dark and more vulnerable neck of the woods. And a place I’ve been rooted too most of these years! We may prop ourselves up with a fresh infatuation, buy a new toy or try something more addictive. But it always seems to linger I think, until we can find an appropriate label for whatever it is that ails us, or is holding us back from so much potential. Even then I doubt that it totally disappears, as we already start to morph into another person through that experience! The fact we’ve looked at it over and over, before eventually filing it away in our mind’s archive, should mean it’s then hopefully out of harm’s way. If it needs to be recalled at any later stage, it should hopefully then come out a more balanced and less-embittered account, by which to see things more in proportion one hopes! If things still don’t feel comfortable - and it’s rarely achieved overnight - then there’s maybe more resolution to be sorted through! Some of this labelling means summoning up the courage to look at oneself I think, and quite often making some stark and unpleasant admissions about what we might see, and what we might have to change! And if another person is involved in any negative kind of way, of maybe trying to see them through a more balanced light now, not through the eyes of any attendant bitterness, which does seem to have a habit of lingering, or keeping us in a negative playback-loop, and increasing the pain with each subsequent telling. When all is said and done, our “Behaviour” is hardwired over a lifetime, so to expect it to suddenly change overnight, is probably akin to trying to do a handbrake turn on an ocean liner, and expecting it to stop in an instant. It won’t, but with surety of mind, sustained effort, and a firm grip, it will eventually steer towards a new direction.

I’ve found much more peace and unity within my essential composite parts nowadays, and at last can feel some pride, but never in a know-it-all or boastful sense I hope. But more born of the years of hard work, and of swimming against the tide through ‘Oceans Of Tears’, to try and make some amends, and offer life some purpose. I do know this for sure, that writing this account of my life - warts and all - also means having to relive that pain with each entry and re-read. But even allowing for the things which have been done so cruelly to me, never do I feel as sad as having to recount things I’ve done to certain others, and felt ashamed about. There’s little mitigation in this camp! My approach is more about fessing up and finally unloading, and without necessarily apportioning blame. And therein I feel lies the cure, and surely the joys of the peace of mind that might bring! I’m perfectly happy for this to be a sociological case study, but surely for that, we need some facts and accountability...

Outwardly of course, the refuse collectors call on us regularly to take our unwanted rubbish away. But inwardly - and without ever sifting through it - this mental garbage just mounts up over the years. So you can either purge it, or find an outlet to express it, often through self-loathing, various addictions, or voicing victimisation of some kind or other. Hate crimes, religions, politicians, criminals and even parents have been tapping into this since the dawn of time, to foist their “Failings” into the minds of others. What I can say, is that I’ve been spat at, beaten up, and called derogatory names for most of my life, and treated like disposable trash for almost all of it so far! So enough is enough, now I’m going to have my say... But to that end, I’ll always try and be respectful, and tell it based on the “Truth”, as I remember it.

In thankfully salvaging this life, I now feel that for the remainder of my time on planet Earth, I can hopefully be a more decent, meaningful and better balanced individual, who even if he doesn't ever sample the delights of long-term “Happiness”, is at least now, more “Content”! That said, I’ve also done some things which I’m appalled by. And contrary to various advice over the years, I don’t ever want to totally banish those experiences, because in a way, I see those memories from where they now reside, as warning lights or a handbrake, should the situation ever look like it might arise again. And that for me is the key towards finding a more permanent resolution and keeping trouble at bay. And whilst I certainly don’t ever make excuses for any less savoury actions, I think like any fair hearing, I’d like my life to be judged overall, which would be more accurate I think, if reading this autobiography from page one to the very last, before making a judgement call. Or, maybe to put it a little more inquiringly, that before casting opinion, wouldn’t it be fairer to first try and put yourself in “My” - or even somebody else’s - shoes first, then wonder, just how “You” might have come out of it all…

I’ve analysed things to death, much to the annoyance of several people in the more distant past, and it did get a bit heavy going over the hill. But I hope that in putting down in some cases almost verbatim, textual extracts - with respectful edits - plus some case file notes and workings out, interwoven with more up-to-date items, that those who read this account, can see a development pretty accurately recorded as to how I experienced things. Even though there are certain things I may find crushingly embarrassing, or worse still, shameful, I fully intend to keep some form of honest chronology to that end, as I complete this personal journey towards ‘Katharsis’.

Allowing that apart from a few books on self-help and various manuals, I’ve probably only ever read two novels in my life, it seems that along with my limited academic qualification, my writing seems to flow much better if it comes out unrehearsed straight onto paper. Or in this case, onto the screen with alterations made afterwards. Also throughout this text, there are going to be words which I seem to have made up or appear misspelt, but I’m sure most will understand what I mean by them, which along with a leaning towards nicknames, just happens to be a part of my personality! I also specifically capitalize Mum, Dad, Sister and Brother, because they are such meaningful and evocative terms to me, just as one would also capitalize a person’s name. And sometimes I’ve also put single quotes or brackets around certain word combinations, but these are more for personal prompts, and may be used for song titles or towards ideas for any future written works! To that end then, all text, prose, quotes, lyrics or dialogue etc., are of my own composition unless otherwise stated.

 Dépression Circumstanciale

“Oh yes, Depression! I know it Well… It’s a place of Total Despair, and not somewhere you can or Should take anybody else! It’s a dark, desolate, and emotionally Crippling place, known only to You and the Eunuchs of the Kasbah. And feels at the time totally inescapable! Almost without warning, it insidiously creeps up and just sweeps over me, and can still feel as dark and disarming as at any time which has passed before. But I’m now more knowledgeable in how to negotiate a way through it all, whilst at the same time, Eternally Thankful, for the Enrichment it brings to my Soul…”

Sincerely Yours

David Okangba (formerly David Low). October 18th, 2019

'My Road To Katharsis, Where Depression Became A Friend!'

CHAPTER 1: 1958 - 1969
The Journey Begins

(This a full Chapter 1 text lift from the unfinished autobiography)

The Beginning

Christened David Low on the twenty second of April nineteen-fifty-eight, the first recollection I had of any intimacy of contact, came when being picked up whilst playing on my own in the home’s sandpit, and finding myself looking into a face unfamiliar. Feeling frightened, I lashed out with my arms, unfortunately knocking a lady’s spectacles off in the process. The woman in question could barely contain that I had, in my frightened child-like manner, not only broken her glasses, but seemingly rejected her enquiring Motherhood at the same time! This early experience appears to have informed much about what would follow in an unfolding life, and clearly put this personal account into debt, before I’d even started to call this lady: “Mum”. There’s a vague recollection of a few journeys in a car, which were possibly a part of acclimatising with this soon to be foster home, from my placement out of a Barnardo’s orphanage called Babies Castle, from nineteen-fifty-eight to nineteen-sixty (see opening photographs). My closest companions seem to have been a blue Eskimo doll, and a small greyish teddy bear which clearly meant a lot to me. They’re also vivid snapshots which have remained over the years. Apart from an infant friend called Neil, I’m unable to remember other events from this period, apart from standing and peeing in the backseat well of the family car as we travelled to my new home, and likely due to nervousness.

Around nineteen-sixty-two when I was aged four, a foster sister named Susan Janet Henry arrived. Susan had been described as a “half-caste Indian” girl, and about two years younger than myself. We soon became extremely close, and it must have been clear to us both, that we were somehow different to the other children in this countrified and cosy hamlet called Millbrook, a small picturesque village, tucked just inside the county boundary of Cornwall. The bonding became even closer as we started to be dressed in matching clothes and sartorially coordinated. Thankfully without any lasting side-effects! I still remember the swimsuit with its orange ruffles, which had us both looking like girls, and those matching red blazers with white trim, as we journeyed to and from the house, looking more like a pair of ethnic curio bookends.

Novelty Value

Susan and I clearly had novelty value, and remember weddings as being an excuse for our parents to dress us up and display to an inquisitive public. Mum would spare no effort to kit us both out economically, and in her eyes, tastefully, from home-made clothing of velvet, and other carefully considered materials. She was certainly extremely talented at making knitwear and sewing, quite often making woollen teddies and dolls for a mail order company, and various charities. “Knit-one, pearl-one”, I remember it well! And of making the fatal mistake of asking a question while she was counting the stitches, with: “Shut up when I’m counting you little bugger”, being a riposte which comes more readily to mind! Before long, I became aware that my Sister was always poorly, and camping holidays even to Jersey, were occasionally brought to an abrupt end due to her leukemia. I really didn’t grasp the situation, but recall that Susan sometimes felt better when sitting on Mum’s lap, and had a healing hand placed on her troubled stomach or forehead. It was pleasing that whether through the purported healing powers of our Mother, or just a feel-good factor, Susan was able to find some comfort at such times! Although neither of us quite understood what was going on, I do remember the words “blood transfusion” being regularly mentioned, and always accompanied by sorrow! If ever I was loudly or physically chastised, Susan would start protesting, and request the punishment be stopped when she saw me in tears and clearly distressed. I can still see her physically coming to stand between Mum and I, and crying for it all to end, on those occasions when it clearly seemed to be going too far for her infant sensitivities!

Big Brother

The first time I recall losing my temper would have been around my sixth year I think, when Susan and I had been given money to explore the village sweet shops. As we made our way cautiously in the direction of the shop, and as usual holding hands - as if in fear of ever being separated - I remember a huge boy coming towards us who blocked our way in the manner of a young Dick Turpin, demanding our money or our lives. And is a phrase which now seems poignant! Being timid and easily scared, I gave my money over without question once he started to twist my hand. My smaller and younger foster Sister however refused, and said: “Leave my Brother alone”, and insisted that he give back what he’d taken, to which he just laughed, and proceeded to punch her several times in the stomach, causing a scream of the like I’d never heard before. In an instant I became almost possessed, and chased him across the village square where he escaped through a garden gate into his home. I then threw rocks at the blue wooden gate, before determinedly - and though frightened - advancing up the garden path and hammering on the front door, where his Mother came out telling me to: “Stop being so silly”, as I blubbed my version of events. This incident certainly impacted my life, and may just have been the loading along with other related events, of a ferocious temper which would later emerge. It was certainly the first time I ever remember losing control in such an all-consuming fashion. And to the point that all else around me became blanked out, as I sought to avenge the brute who’d just hurt my little Sister.

Susan was hospitalised just after this, and it now became usual for me to wait alone in a stone outbuilding at a children's hospital in Plymouth, while Mum and Dad visited her ward. I think it was called Scott Hospital, and would usually be on a Sunday, but only remember one time ever being allowed to see her - and I can still see it -  and that she never came home and stayed for long following this incident. Thankfully I was more able in my early twenties to see this event in better perspective, and only then could I approach the now grown man, without wanting to give him a good thumping. For years I hated that guy, and certainly blamed his actions for Susan’s absence, which may in part, have also been fuelled by our Mother, who often talked of him and this event as being the cause for that more recent hospitalization.

Where’s My Sister?

Over some weeks things seemed a bit stranger than usual about the house. Time passed and Susan still hadn’t returned home, with this absence long outlasting any which had gone before! After some time I started to dress up in some of her clothing, which after some family debate don’t remember being discouraged, as I played with her toys in the desolate gloom of our dolls house size of a home. In some ways this comforted through those strange and lonely days, tentatively awaiting the homecoming of my bestest, seemingly only, childlike friend! I remember playing this game with Dad, where I’d ask him to show me that little star in the night sky he and Mum had told me was a candle Susan had lit “Especially” for me! He’d take me into the front garden and hold me aloft on his shoulders. I’d look up acceptingly, pointing towards the place I thought it might be, not always sure I had the right star until he redirected my aim! I think it’s pretty clear to me now that this recollection also advised the lyrics to: ‘It’s Never Really Goodbye’, which I later recorded for the companion album to this book. I can also better see, that these events must have been an extremely upsetting time for both of them too, and remember how flustered they got when I asked them to do this each time! I can still recall the emotiveness from my parents, as I surely believed in the tale, and would look up in guided fashion as a wishful child might do! Thinking about it, it also seems to be one of the rare times, my foster parents ever seemed unified in any kind of expressively caring way.

Whatever was going on, I was certainly a very slow learner, and can still recall even around the age of five or so, having terrible trouble remembering my full name, address or age. Mother didn’t help matters when one of my earliest school books revealed that I thought that pigs came out of trees, and apples out of chickens, or something similar. She ridiculed me over this for years, but failed to register that this may have been more of an indicator of not only a slow learner, but an infant who may just have other things at school to worry about... I don’t know what it was like for others, but for me that first day at junior school only conjures up visions of fear and dread, when I was left at the school entrance to immediately burst into tears as my Mother walked away, and pretty much remained in that condition for the rest of the day. I guess it’s another type of separation in some way, which can only be further compounded in my case I should think, by already coming from a very isolated family, and without any other pre-school acclimatisation I can think of, from which to draw upon.

I was something of a dim light though I guess by most peer comparison, and found it difficult to grasp anything academic. I can still remember in those formative years the silent confusion, when the newscaster over footage of the Vietnam conflict, would comment on guerrilla warfare, whilst showing helicopters firing ammunition into the jungle. I certainly kept that one to myself, as I fumbled with scary images of hairy primates running amuck with machine guns, but it may explain why ‘Planet Of The Apes’ still remains one of my favourite films to this day! I’m suitably more encouraged however, that fifty-odd years later, a two-thousand-and-seven Dairy Farmers of Britain survey, revealed that many city dwelling children in England between ages eight and fifteen, still think that cows lay eggs! So I’m not the only one it seems, who is capable of confusing battery chickens for Duracell products!

Around this time, came a first encounter with the uncertainty of the sea, when I shuffled down to the water’s edge at a local beach called Seaton in Cornwall. Quite unexpectedly, a wave engulfed me and dragged me outwards as I tumbled out of control, drinking the first and last mouthfuls of sandy seawater I’d ever wish to taste. This unease around the sea - like my phobia of garden worms - remained well into my thirties. And I think it true that certain incidents which happen in childhood clearly somehow get hardwired into a growing person’s psyche, especially those centred around abandonment, abuse, or other impactful incidents of some kind. And the sooner we get to learn about such matters, I guess the longer we’re likely to be around.

School

School was really scary, mainly because I seemed to be the only person of a certain colour, or the odd one out, which has certainly formed a pattern for much of my life. But the teachers were protective, even if I did cry a lot to every jibe or snapped chastisement. I do appear to have been a little better gifted at art and crafts though, and often won prizes for drawing and painting in the Brooke Bond school competitions. The earliest memory I have of actually making something, would be a Santa Claus Christmas card, although it must be said, I was helped by my favourite teacher of the time. She was a young lady whom I think used to travel across from Plymouth each day on the Cremyll ferry, and would often be invited into our home while she waited for the bus, where Mum would then gently probe her about the goings-on at school. The card front had a large Santa’s face and he wore a bright red hat with a bobble, set on thick amber-yellow paper, he also had a beard made of real cotton wool which I was really enamoured by! It contained a rather unconfidently written message, and became one of my proudest moments - and a first awareness of making and giving something! It was for my Mum too, which made it even more “Special”!

Outside of Millbrook junior school was something of an isolated existence too, and I was also now bereft of my closest companion, who’d clearly gone away for what seemed a very long time... As a family we tended to go out at weekends, especially visiting relations which were rarely ever a straightforward or happy-ever-after affair. Some of my favourite weekend visits - although rare - were to an aunt at a picturesque coastal town called Dartmouth in neighbouring Devon. I now believe that this cuddly aunt would have been Mum’s step Mother, as her Father had remarried in later years, presumably after the death of his first wife. Many of these Sundays would culminate in the early evening with a séance or two, which at the time because of other spiritual meetings and religious gatherings, never seemed out of the ordinary. Our aunt was supposedly a “Medium”, but I never really understood what was going on with this strange collection of women, and sometimes a few older men, as we’d all join hands and with stern faces, sit around a table lit only by candles, and try to make conversation with people who for some reason, only ever came out in the dark! It was clear from some of the conversations that Susan was somehow involved, as she’d been through those days where Mum would constantly be arguing with the medical profession over my sister’s illness. She often doubted their qualified findings of leukemia, and only antagonised them further by insisting not on medical help, but in continuing with her use of faith healers and the like. And it isn’t that dissimilar I guess, to various other religions and beliefs systems in that respect!

Fact or Fiction?

There were several times around these years, that I’d wake up in the night frozen with fear, as I felt a body next to mine lying on top of the bed. Petrified, and if I felt brave enough, I’d slowly turn my head to see a man who was faceless, and always wore an old fashioned black suit. And the very same gentleman I’d often see walking down our stairs in the dark of night, on my way to the kitchen. After one of these spiritual meetings, it had been supposed that I’d described with some accuracy, an uncle I don’t remember ever meeting, who said he’d only been coming to my room to protect me! From what, I’m not sure. On another occasion, I’d been scolded several times for taking a family heirloom, only for a séance to reveal that Susan had moved it as a prank, but was upset that I’d been punished, so on returning home, Mum went to a particular drawer and found the antique purse tucked away at the back as directed. I’m still unsure what to make of these events, which are always open to skullduggery of course, but as an infant can feel very believable. But of the few options, I’d always be better pleased to have the spirit world onside I think!

Around this time I joined the Cubs, but wonder now about the term for the girl equivalent of the time, called The Brownies... In this current climate of sometimes over-political correctness, can they still get away with calling it a troupe of Brownies?, when the group may have members of “Colour” from the West Indies or Africa within its number, for instance. Maybe this isn’t too extreme a consideration either, when one remembers the dubious fate of our trusty old friend the Gollywog in recent years, who not only finds himself more respectfully truncated these days, but seems to spend his entire life now hiding away, for fear of upsetting somebody. Our Cub troop would often expedition to local woods, or meet up with other groups for camping holidays which were great fun. And from always feeling so socially isolated, it was sure a respite in part that I welcomed! The Cub Scout Bob-A-Job season though did seem to bring out a competitive spirit in me, to try and raise the most money for charity. But I doubt it could ever happen nowadays in the way that it once did, with its more obvious implications of having young boys going into a stranger’s home, to do a favour for a bob or two! It could work, if they worked in volunteer groups of course, but I do often wonder, if time is increasingly robbing our future now of much of its innocence, as it overloads our enlightenment to the lesser side of the human condition.

Judo

At the end of our road lived a bully, who along with his South African parents, lived only metres from our house. Rarely could I get out of the road if he happened to be about. And if I did negotiate him by going around the quayside garage, there were other thugs I’d have to be on permanent alert for who made life an absolute hell!

Bluto for one was an older much more stocky lad, and would regularly chase me on sight and steal or break my toys, before expressing his punching prowess on my wiry frame. It seemed to be obsessive with him, along with those “Nigger” and “Wog” taunts. The distance I had to travel around the village just to get to shops which were no more than a few minutes away, often seemed like miles. I’d go up lanes, across fields, down more back streets, and eventually home where I’d be punished for taking so long. These are routes by the way, I walked so often, that I can still see them vividly, stride by stride, and with every peek around each corner, to see if it was ever safe to surface. And again, this appeared to be an evasive pattern I’d do well to learn thoroughly. Mum and Dad eventually cottoned on, so due to so much attendant bullying, I was sent for judo lessons in Plymouth each Wednesday evening.

On one later occasion in the local playing field, I eventually plucked up the courage to attempt to use this new found training, when the South African started coming out with his usual racist remarks. Now angered to the extreme, I determinedly walked over to this very stocky lad, and proceeded to throw him all over the place And never before had I realised, that he - like many bullies caught on their own - are often terrified if confronted by someone so fired up. And in this case, a person now also reasonably fluent in the Tiatoshi! The ginger-haired freckled one ran off crying his tortured heart out, only for me to arrive home later to find his parents had been down to our house, but had been told quite assuredly what they could do with their complaint. This is one of those contradictions of the place I’d come to call “Home”, because although the lady of the house was finding very little in what I did that was ever right, she could at the same time, aggressively defend my corner! This often would then spill into Father’s home visits to many villagers, telling them what I’d do to their children in future years because of their bullying. But it barely warmed my peers to ever be allowed to integrate with me. Then on a flip of a coin, my parents would be embarrassing me by coming out in person to shout and chastise in an almost demented fashion, because I’d overrun a play curfew by ten minutes or so. Or, was deemed to be behaving “inappropriately” in a public place as she’d often put it. And we aren't talking about me walking around with my wadger hanging out or anything like that just here. For her - and this was usually my Mother’s warpath - this could mean me simply laughing out loud in public, which did cost me a rare friend in Colin, because we often found stuff to giggle about, as I dared to express the joys of humour. This in our household, would have been considered enjoying life more than the good “Lord” intended! So I was forbidden to play with him thereafter. It was certainly increasingly common for my parents to spy through binoculars from the back garden or bedroom window, which only served to compound that unsettling feeling of always being looked at, or scrutinised! My few friends would often point them out as we rambled the village, and was not only embarrassingly normal, but pushed me to being even more cut off from the pack. That is, with the main exception of Corky, who was my most trusty friend through these years of increasing isolation, who when allowed, would join me to cycle off to some place or other with our packed lunch sandwiches, or build tree camps more locally.

My First Bicycle

Talking about cycling, and going back a little, I remember my first bicycle as being sky blue in colour, and was a lovely Christmas present from my parents. Speaking of which, we always had a real tree for Christmas, and as a family, would ornament our home with homemade decorations and things kept from the past, but woe betide if anything had broken in storage. You wouldn’t believe the fuss my Mother made over this! And it would last for days, adding a tension to the whole affair, with Father at a loss to explain himself to a full M15 enquiry, as to why a single bauble had been found smashed, after living quite happily unscathed in the attic for several years.

But back to that bike! The first time I remember taking it out - which was the same Christmas day - I lost control, and not having the sense to brake, rode off the edge of the road and down into where the sea would have been, had it not been low tide. After we returned, I saw my Father cry, and it was the first time I’d ever seen him do so! It was also one of those rare times Mum ever seemed to offer comfort to him, consoling her husband in words she rarely used! He was clearly upset I may have been hurt, and felt it his fault! I loved my Mother and Father as much as I think any child could, and amidst even the tantrums, would often bring home flowers from the hedge when returning from another solitary expedition. And would invariably follow the same route season to season, knowing each variety by name, and roughly when they were due, so that I could pick again, those gifts of nature’s giving, for my Mum.

Adult Content!

Now this next entry has me somewhat flummoxed actually, as it’s taken me until now (two-thousand-and-nineteen, and coming up to age sixty-one) to really see it for what it was, and needs to be more detailed than the kind of glossing over I’ve always given it in previous drafts. So I hope that I cover it in a balanced way, and that it’s worded to satisfy where I might be aiming it, which strangely isn’t the perpetrator, which maybe says more about me, than I can understand just now.

So it was a big thing with Mum to always be at home for me if I’d been out, but quite often I’d be taken to somebody else's house for the evening, whilst my parents - and in later years my foster Brother - went out to spiritual meetings or wherever, and I’d be left with a babysitter. This could be those family aunts, who were always kind and gentle to me, or sometimes a young girl whom I knew and liked a lot, and the daughter of some people my parents got on well with, which is a rare thing in itself. But unfortunately, the only events that I can ever recall of this young girl, were that she’d always be saying that I could…

(sensitive content and removed text) available in the book only

…This pretty much happened each time she babysat, and to this day I can still see in my mind where as a six and seven-year-old boy, we’d go through this ritual on the sitting room floor or the sofa in my foster home, and sometimes her home. And of course I remember the girl’s name, and shall remain very protective of that, but this is the thing which I’m now a little thrown by, and certainly as somebody who advocates that people should step forward with this kind of stuff, and get it out there for the perpetrators to be caught and punished, and it’s this...

I’ve read and re-read that original very small paragraph about this for some years now, and my wording has always been almost deliberately non-committal about what actually occurred, when in reality it’s as clear to me now as it was back then. So I’m wondering why I hadn’t ever acknowledged this for what it was, and actually say it! I’m not sure, and as this is a journey for me towards ’Katharsis’, I should maybe be analysing this more, but I think in general that there might be a few reasons. Firstly, I always liked this girl, who was otherwise gentle, caring, and outwardly very protective of me, as were her entire family! Secondly, it hasn’t as far as I can see, damaged me so much, that I can use it in anyway as mitigation for any of my own bad deeds, and I think in hindsight, that this might just be a strong candidate, being a guy who’s always been heavy on self-flagellation and penance! And thirdly, that I’ve always tried to understand or empathise I think, that this lass couldn’t herself have been more than around ten or eleven years-of-age over these episodes, which has always left me considering, just what she may have been subjected to…

In other words, in trying to consider all of the angles, I’ve long had a strong belief that she was quite possibly being abused herself at that time, and I find it interesting that she nearly always used to ask if I’d: “like to…”, rather than be telling me in more deliberate fashion what to do each time, as a more intent perpetrator might do maybe. So was her abuse then, at the hands of an adult or another child? And having no brothers, where maybe some sexual experimentation may have been going on, might that person have even have been her own Father? And in that, maybe I’m finding it hard due to her own more vulnerable age, to be able to totally condemn or “out” her, for what is still and all, very “Wrong” and “Inappropriate” behaviour, being administered to a boy aged six and seven years-of-age at the time. But I can’t believe with what I remember of her personality and overprotectiveness towards me, that she was the main instigator. Of course I could be wrong, but one thing that it did do through its realisation, was leave an unease about me when in later years, I ran into her Father, which does seem to be a more typical response to such accusations or suspicion!

There’s also something I touch on further into the book and on my websites, about “Motive” when reporting sexual crime, or any abuse for that matter! And in this case, I want to be totally sure when all is considered, why I’m telling this, and as I’ve said, also where I’m trying to aim it! But happen it did, quite often, and will stay with me to the day I die I should think, but for some reason, I’ve never felt myself angered by it, or been able to call it as it is, and that’s my flummox… Do I want to destroy this woman now, for what she did as a young girl way back then? No, absolutely not, but had this been an adult who had done these things to me - and certainly a man - then I’d be thinking differently about it of course. But for her part, it stopped around the time I remember her saying that she was now attending senior school, which would have made her about eleven years of age when it came to an end I should think. And mixing with other older kids, maybe she also got to realise that what was going on was very wrong, which may explain why she was always sheepish around me in later years, and started to make up excuses why she couldn’t babysit any more!

So I hope that when all is considered, this revised text might somehow explain why it might run contrary to my quite bullish stand on child abuse being brought into the daylight, where it can be dealt with and punished, but with “Cure” in mind! I still find that society on the whole pays much lip service over “Abuse”, but when push comes to shove, still finds it a hot potato to air on any kind of political or media platform, or sustain once the front page story’s already been told and passed. So maybe as I’ve mentioned in the prologue, for some of us, it might make a good enough compromise, to just be able to get it out of the mind, relook at it, put a label on the issue, and then file it away where it can cause no further harm. But a “Cure” will rarely be found I think, if we keep denying that something ever happened, and instead leave it to ferment in the background, and allow it to weep into other aspects of our life! And although the outcome of child sexual abuse will be different for any one of us, I think the road that I’ve come out of now, informs me that although we may have deep wounds inflicted upon us, we don’t always have to allow them to bleed for the rest of our lives! And if this young girl was herself being abused, then I really hope she’s been able to work it through, and still be able to lead a productive and caring life. And if she wasn’t, then it’s her Karma, and from this point on, is no longer an issue of mine!

So in the final analysis then, I can see even more now into my determination that come hell or high-water, the song for my debut EP called: ‘Please Don’t Abuse Me’, just wouldn’t ever go away, and has taken almost two decades to make its final appearance. And although probably unplayable on the radio, it’s still always reappeared after various purges and abandonment, as a statement to express from the very core, who I really am I guess! And right now, still fits the journey from the front cover right through to the very last page of the book I should think, if one can ever bear to listen to the song right through. And however harrowing or unsettling the content might seem, it’s still a topic which is as valid today, sadly, as it was when I originally wrote it back in the year two-thousand. By the way, this entry which now clearly describes my being a victim of - and at last I shall say it - “Child Sexual Abuse”, I’ve never told anybody about before, although earlier drafts of this chapter will be out there somewhere no doubt, but with an all too convenient lack of admission, in its telling…

It’s very hard to write about certain topics though, and like the composition of the song, there’s a balance to be had I think, as it’s always going to offend somebody’s sensitivities, or open up wounds for others, whilst also trying to remain a serious work unto itself. And for sure, it’s also going to titillate certain types, however hard one tries not too! And I’ve still not been as graphic as I could have been, so I just hope I’ve presented it in a balanced tone. I think my main stand on this recording though, is that it might offer others the chance to somehow see how “They” might  be able express, such a dark experience creatively through “Catharism”, or at the very least, cause sufficient enough debate, that something actually gets done about it all!

Church

Ok, back to other matters then. Church attendances for me were always a regular thing, and I had to read the Sunday morning bible text, which mortified me having to stand in front of all those people, though it almost seemed like a badge of honour for my parents! Occasionally Mother would also take me to see our local vicar to be chastised when she felt that she couldn’t get through, but he seemed a little more with it than she’d allowed, and would talk to me in a more encouraging and less hostile way. This is something though that I did seem to respond to much better, so there was never an issue with him. In fact, I liked Reverend Tiddly a lot, and we maintained contact well into my adulthood, and up until he retired from the parish. For various reasons though, and usually involving the vicar of the moment, our family changed churches over the years, which had them going from Church of England to Methodist, and back again with some frequency, which was somewhat confusing, considering how they’d forced religion and it’s doctrine to ‘Celestial Obedience’ down my throat from day one.

Family Discontent

A few years after Susan hadn’t returned, Mum and Dad decided to foster a young Jamaican boy, but due to his asthma he also spent considerable time in and out of hospital, and a situation he learned to play on to personal benefit quite well. For me there would probably have been something of an unsettling déjà vu surrounding his disappearances, which may have caused me to play up a little more than usual. And it seems around this time, a wedge became planted between Mother and I for whatever reason. Her rationale at this time to justify her constantly hounding me, would be: “We’re less severe with your Brother because he’s black, and coloured society will accept him, whereas, you are not one thing or the other, and will be rejected by the white community for being black, and the black community for being part-white”. These ongoing statements, never actually did my self-worth a whole lot of good, and only confirmed that life really didn’t really want me around it seemed!

Although I tried at times to greet my new Brother with keenness, this surely started to turn into near resentment around Mother’s constantly siding with him. And he also had a great knack of faking an asthma attack to get me into trouble if we weren’t getting on. In fact he’d fake them so well, he’d often end up having one, and have to be rushed off to hospital. As telling tales went, this lad was ‘Spillikins’, who unchecked, also made a habit of trashing my treasured toys and books. And I’ll never forget how he was allowed to go unpunished for cutting up and dissecting my favourite childhood teddy bear. The one which had travelled with me from Babies Castle! Or, the teddy I kept of Susan’s, which he stripped to pieces, before I tried to sew it better. I know that sibling annoyance is sadly a more common thing, but Mum visibly seemed to enjoy seeing me hurt as she sided with him, whilst he smirked in the background. She’d found a weapon to ride out her frustration and bitterness it seems, and had learned how to use it with lacerating precision, and usually in my direction.

Talking about sewing Susan’s teddy better, finding out how things work has always intrigued me! Watches, bicycles, old radios, in fact most things with moving components would come in for closer inspection whether they were broken or not. Occasionally these would not always fit back together, which did take some explaining, as my parents had huge respect for looking after things and making them last! They were also extremely vigilant, probably to the point of paranoia. So woe betide if I broke anything, which I’d have to hear about over and over again, first at home, and then again in public to just about anybody Mother could find to listen. If I ever crashed on my bike, and something was broken or buckled which I couldn’t repair before I got home, I’d be in a state of high anxiety days, waiting for the moment my Father noticed it, which he always would, and was then punished by not being able to go out on it for a while, as my friends zoomed off into the sunset. And don’t get me started on the amount of times I had to hear about the things they’d had to “Sacrifice”, to be able to buy something for me in the first place.

Mum did much home cooking, and was also very accomplished at it. On rare occasions she’d even allow me to take the day off school to help bake pasties, Christmas cakes, or prepare for a roast dinner, which still remains one of my favourite meals! Even more so, if it’s got those crispy tatties! Sometimes too, I’d actually make the Sunday roast for the family, which made me feel so proud, but can I ever get crispy tatties? Not a chance, and to this day I still haven’t cracked it! I’ve never liked pork fat however, in fact I hate the stuff, although was constantly being told by Mum: “It’s good for you”. Sunday after Sunday it would be the last thing on my dinner plate, but I had to sit there until it had all been eaten. They’d all be in the sitting room around the log fire watching television, and I’d be left sitting in a cold kitchen on my own with the lights turned off, well into the dark of night, until it had either been eaten or it was time for church, or bed. Often in desperation I’d swallow it with bread and cold turnip, but it barely went down before I was gagging, and would immediately vomit in the toilet as it tasted so awful. On other occasions I’d smuggle it into my pocket wrapped in toilet paper, and dispose of it on the way to evensong. And do you know what?, I can still taste it! But perversely, being sick was deemed more acceptable than leaving it, and all restrictions were lifted once it could be proven that I’d either eaten the stuff, or vomited. And Shiva our cat didn’t like it, so she was of no help!

Even those few friends who called for me to play were turned away at the door, and if the dreaded fat wasn’t eaten, it was served up again on Monday after school as promised. And the same war of attrition would start all over again. If I’d come to really hate one day of the week, it was surely Sundays! And although I loathed those pork fat episodes, I’ve since been made aware that Brussels sprouts were a dislike for many other children too. It does seem to be a strange parental behaviour, and one which doesn’t make my experience all that unique in retrospect. But no less cruel. I love Brussels sprouts by the way, and is maybe why Mother headed for the pork fat, as a pattern clearly seems to be emerging of her almost semi-loathing of me by now!

Junior School

Although I’d some protection from a few more enlightened souls around the village, I still had the makings of an aggressive bully myself it seems. One such unforgivable event happened when a group of us assembled to pick on an extremely frail girl, who I’ll name Laura! She was beaten and bullied into tears on the school hill, for which many of us were deservedly caned and severely reprimanded. Our headmaster was quite correctly enraged by our behaviour, getting his point over as good as any headmaster could or should! I still remember this young girl, whose teasing nickname was “Wednesday”. Laura’s considered differences from the rest of us were that she had very “skinny” legs, came from another seemingly odd family and appeared very timid and awkward. Such points should not warrant bullying however, although I’m sure that many out there will be familiar with the term, “Spindle Legs”, which this poor lass was subjected to day-after-day! The sound which surely reverberated so cruelly about her ears, being the chant of childlike voices chorusing: “Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday gonna snap”? I feel shame at having to type this entry, and even more so when in adult years, I was informed by one of Laura’s sisters, that apart from often being locked in a darkened room, these children were also regularly served pet food for meals. It was the first time for me, that I’d ever heard somebody celebrate the death of their Father, and “wish him to hell”. And with some good reason it seems!

For many children, the school playground can appear to be one of the most hostile, harsh, and cruelest environments we’re ever likely to encounter. Second only I should think to an abusive or threatening place one might call “Home”! If anybody wonders at all how Adolf Hitler or Pol Pot can come to power with the shared belief system of devoted followers or the masses, it can surely be seen that eugenics are already taking shape on most school playgrounds, where groups seem to segregate into packs according to type. Wrong though it is, if one is considered fat, has ginger hair, seems frail, is academically slow, of different nationality, or happens to wear glasses, then one is going to be much more likely to be singled out for special treatment! Fear and its close companion cruelty, for some, seems to emanate from the unknown and is probably a theme that’s as old as the human race. Caning and smacking are now banned, but sadly I don’t see a society escalating in knife and gun crime, or intent on trashing things or people, as having a case for an argument against a once, proven discipline which after all, did seem to keep us more unruly kids in check back in the day. The alternatives of course, are increasingly more evident for all to see these days, with bad attitudes ranging well into adulthood. And unchecked, is also exposing a legal system many have little faith in, apart that is from criminals, and expensive lawyers, who can use its failings to their own advantage of course.

Children and even adults should need to know that there are “Boundaries” with accountable repercussions, if one breaks the rules! Respect too I can see, is in some decline as it cries out from its sick bed. And is something I’m often reminded of as I walk this beautiful coastal area, and witness broken bottles deliberately smashed on the beach, trashed park benches, syringes, doggy-dos smearing the walkways, and litter which festoon our shoreline and parkland. When instead, these are places surely that we should be giving “Thanks” for! Gone are the days sadly, when it was safe to say or do anything about such anti-social behaviour. And even longer ago it seems, that more generally uplifting values and respect were taught in most homes, no matter how seemingly poor, or impoverished its occupants may have appeared.

Society also now seems to have a growing disregard or a lack of faith in the application of the law, where a punishment fits the crime. From those I’ve spoken to over the years, the: “You wait ‘til your dad gets home”, had its place! I’m not talking about a Father coming home drunk and beating up the kids with an empty beer bottle, but more a firm and guiding presence. Unfortunately, now fast becoming something of a ‘Nation Without Fathers’, I’m not sure this could be implied in the same way it once was. With our modern more extended family lifestyle, and with each child almost by default these days, sporting a different colour hairpiece to their brothers and sisters,  any statement which involves the “Dad” word, could prove not only confusing, but sadly, now less valued. Speaking of parents, my birth Mother still used to write via Barnardo’s for Christmas and birthdays, and I remember, with a certain affection now, how for some reason her presents always seemed years behind my actual age! Foster Mum and Dad though, did have to constantly chase me to write back to say “thank you”, so credit to them for trying to encourage that! It was kind of strange to me though, because Mum and Dad were Mr. and Mrs. Bainbridge. And the Nigeria of my Fatherland, was in this case, a little village called Millbrook in Cornwall. I knew, or wanted no different, in spite of the poor exchange rate for my sense of “Belonging”!

Children and even adults should need to know that there are “Boundaries” with accountable repercussions, if one breaks the rules! Respect too I can see, is in some decline as it cries out from its sick bed. And is something I’m often reminded of as I walk this beautiful coastal area, and witness broken bottles deliberately smashed on the beach, trashed park benches, syringes, doggy-dos smearing the walkways, and litter which festoon our shoreline and parkland. When instead, these are places surely, that we should be giving thanks for! Gone are the days sadly, when it was safe to say or do anything about such anti-social behaviour. And even longer ago it seems, that more generally uplifting values and respect were taught in most homes. No matter how seemingly poor, or impoverished it’s occupants may have appeared.

Society also, now seems to have a growing disregard or a lack of faith in the application of the law, where a punishment fits the crime. From those I’ve spoken to over the years, the: “You wait ‘til your dad gets home”, had it’s place! I’m not talking about a Father coming home drunk and beating the kids with an empty beer bottle, but more a firm and guiding presence. Unfortunately, now fast becoming something of a ‘Nation Without Fathers’, I’m not sure this could be implied in the same way it once was. With our modern more extended family lifestyle, and with each child almost by default these days, sporting a different colour hairpiece from the other family members, any statement which involves the “Dad” word, could prove not only conflicting, but sadly, now less valued. Speaking of parents, my Birth Mother still used to write via Barnardo’s for Christmas and birthdays. And I remember with a certain affection now, how for some reason, her presents seemed years behind my actual age! Foster Mum and Dad did have to constantly chase me to write back to say “thank you”, so credit to them for trying to encourage that! It was kinda strange to me though, because Mum and Dad were Mr. and Mrs. Bainbridge. And the Nigeria of my Fatherland, was in this case, a little village called Millbrook in Cornwall. I knew, or wanted no different, in spite of the poor exchange rate for any sense of my “Belonging”!

Village Life

Carnival day in our village was eagerly anticipated, with people travelling the length of Cornwall for extended pub hours, which would have been something of a rarity in those days leading out of the sixties. Mum and Dad always made great effort to kit me out in improvised clothing, though I still dreaded being put on display. They took delight in taking photographs of the day, whilst reminding me I always looked so “Miserable” in them, which does appear to be somewhat true, although I’d claim it as feeling shy or awkward! Dad always entered the spirit of the occasion, and like certain others, made the most of being able to dress up in drag and walk around the village with a collection tin for a local charity, and enjoying himself.

Beginning to feel my feet more assuredly, I started getting up to more and more mischief whilst out and about now, and also increasingly telling lies. So whilst out with the gang we’d invariably be having a lark, but then on being caught out would do what most mischief-makers do, and run away. Being a good runner I was rarely ever caught, but I was always seen! It would constantly be: “That coloured bi was there. I seen ‘im. I naw where ee lives”. On one occasion when being chased out of a local youth holiday camp at Maker near Cawsand, after our curious inspection had been rumbled by those in charge, I vividly recall shouts of: “Leave the others, get the nigger!” It brings a wry smile to me now, as I recall breaking all records for running, as I sprinted past my peers and jumped barbed wire fences like a world class hurdler. And all clad in my tartan-fringed denim. Yes, I did say tartan, this was the early seventies! If nothing else, I was an able runner, but the underlying truth was that I had to be! Which is why I used to get confused when well-meaning folk said: “It makes no difference you being coloured”! Unfortunately it does, when certain people treat you with such appalling inequality. I understand better now though, that with the benefit of age, some reasoning power and experience, one can better harness and wear that “difference” in many other more positive ways. And this will hopefully unfold in this telling. That said, I also realised early days that I could use “Colour” to my advantage in certain ways too. And unfortunately, being able to tap into those of a more forgiving nature, it probably made me more troublesome than ever, by playing what they might call today, “The Race Card”. It isn’t something I ever do nowadays thankfully, but it’s a ploy which annoys me, when I hear how it’s played by ne’er-do-wells or trouble makers, to try and get their own bullish way, or get off an ill deed scot-free.

Behaviour

Because I was always “buggering around” and “not right” as Mum always put it, I was sent to see a psychiatrist a few times. But after successfully putting the triangular shapes into the triangular cut-outs, and having a general chat to see if I still thought apples came out of chickens, the child psychologist deemed me mentally fit. It made interesting reading though in later years, that along with a few social workers, the Barnardo's files also mentioned that he’d pointed a cautionary finger at the behaviour of my guardians, and prompts this next entry, which at the time I didn’t tell anybody about.

On one of my escalating tantrums, Mum and Dad at wits end, tied me inside my Judo coat, which was a pretty strange experience! Wherever the incident started, it ended in my bedroom, with them both grappling with me to try and get the coat on me from front to back. They then tied the belt and sleeves together so that my hands were secured behind me. Thinking about this now, they must have thought about that beforehand, and although I cried on the bed into the dark of night, eventually did manage to free myself. Unfortunately the next time I had an outburst - and as they’d often threatened - they strapped me into a straightjacket borrowed from somebody locally who’d got it from their place of work, which was a nursing home back then I seem to remember. There was no escaping that one with all of its buckles and straps, and certainly shut me up, apart from the muted snot-laden crying, as I lay in my darkened bedroom. But it also highlights that I was now becoming more and more deeply entrenched in a war of wills with my surrogate Mother, as I wrestled with a growing identity, and more than a hint of isolated confusion!

Although there are now clearer implications as to why I may have behaved so, I do have some sympathy for my parents in their limitations, as things clearly seemed to be getting more out of control. But their point blank refusal to take any parental guidance from social workers at Barnardo’s, only created more insecurity and frustration in trying to handle an adolescent, who was trying like most, to form his own personality. God, and a book by American paediatrician Benjamin Spock were my Mother’s guides, and nobody was going to tell her any different! Dad for his part would try and support my corner, but would be overruled if the outcome was ever going to favour me. Many a time I’d be just out of the front gate having asked Dad as instructed, if I could go out and play, only to be called back after Mother had changed his mind and got her own way again. It was something I almost came to expect each time, but still always left me mentally feeling like I was on the end of a piece of string, which somebody else could yank, just to amuse themselves!

But there were occasions where again they did seem more in general agreement over their execution of a discipline, as this a previous episode might illustrate from around my eighth or ninth year. And if we add back into this mix, my being sexually abused at the same time, we could have the makings of a quite dangerous and perverted adult! I remember that they’d been talking about this with somebody for quite a while, and I’m not sure how common this was, but after they’d caught me lying about something or other, and I’d eventually gone to bed, the trick apparently was to wake me up in the middle of the night after being fully asleep, and ask again the same question they wanted an honest answer to. If you failed to give the answer they were after - which seems to have been the case - then they’d pull back the bed sheets and gave my “ass a good tanning”, as they used to call it. I still remember that first time when all bleary eyed and being asked about this something or other, I looked up to see them both staring at me from the end of the bed, before having my pyjamas pulled down, to feel my backside being leathered by one of Father’s straps. Obviously it was a shock to the system, and I cried for ages, but wasn’t so scared the second time around having already experienced the worst that could be done. And I don’t remember this bare-ass thrashing continuing beyond that!

But to maybe add a little more objectivity to these earlier recollections, I’m going to input a report dated March third, nineteen-sixty-nine as filed by Barnardo’s, who had a psychiatrist and some social workers present for a discussion. And again, it will be respectfully edited regarding names...

...As usual Dr. T. had no information about this foster home before coming for the discussion. He prefers only to know the names and ages of the children, and for the circumstances to be given to him verbally. Miss M. and I, therefore, recounted to him the circumstances of this foster home since we had first known the foster parents, right through David Low’s placement, Susan Henry’s placement and subsequent death and Foster Brother’s placement. We went on to describe the present difficulties regarding transport for the Foster Brother to school, and also the strengths and weaknesses as we saw them in this foster home, quite apart from the present crisis.

Present crisis: Dr. T. did not feel that we should really base our discussions on this present crisis because he felt it did not give a true picture of the foster home. There have been disturbing features since the start of the transport difficulties. (third-party omission from transcript)…

...however, Mrs. Bainbridge’s reaction has been abnormal in its strength. He also felt that the fact that she has written about a dozen letters to her M.P. over the matter of half an hours schooling, does warrant a deeper look into her mental stability.

Susan Henry: It was felt that Susan’s death was still greatly affecting this foster home, although now Mrs. Bainbridge very rarely talks of Susan and can do so with much less emotion than previously, she still insists on keeping Susan’s photographs very prominently placed in the living room.  (third-party omission from transcript)…

David Low: Miss M. described to Dr. T. our worries about David at present, as at the moment he appears to have very few friends in the village, and is growing into a rather isolated child. David mentally is not as quick as his Foster Brother, and although a very good athlete is much more lethargic in the home. He has never been a child to demonstrate his affection, which again is most unlike the Foster Brother. Mrs. Bainbridge has frequently remarked on how undemonstrative he is, so that one feels that any affection that he might be able to show could become stilted. David does show concern for Foster Brother during his “attacks”, very much more so than he used to do with little Susan. One is also bound to wonder what affect Foster Brother’s frequent hospitalisation is having on David, in view of the fact it is a repeat of what happened to Susan. He shows his concern by buying little gifts with his pocket money for Foster Brother when he returns from hospital, which Mrs. Bainbridge tells him are quite unnecessary as Foster Brother has only been a way a few days, and they are always sure he is coming back. David is extremely fond of games, particularly football, at which he is very good.

About two weeks ago he played in a game where he was the goalie and during the course of the match, David got kicked. As a result of this Mrs. Bainbridge tackled Mr. C. the headmaster, complaining that David had been kicked and that he was not to play in the position of goalie again, with the result that David is now playing center forward, to the jibes of his fellow school mates.

Colour: We went on to consider the question of colour, and the Bainbridge's real attitude towards it, and here Welfare Officers felt most concern. It has never been really discovered why the Bainbridge’s were so insistent that they wanted coloured children in this small Cornish village, where only in the last month or two have any other coloured people been in the vicinity. We understand there are now another two coloured families, one Indian and one African, in the village. Foster parents have impressed upon David that he must be better behaved than his peers, that if six boys are found skylarking, the other five boys will get away with it because they are white, but David because of his colour will stand out and be remembered. Mr. Bainbridge also appears to be as supersensitive about the boys and has been known, if David has come off worse in a fight, to go and tackle his opponents Father, threatening what David will do to his son when he is old enough. The effect of this is that David’s friends within the village naturally decreased.

Mr. and Mrs. Bainbridge: There is no doubt that Mrs. Bainbridge is the dominant character in this marriage, and Mr. Bainbridge, although not completely overwhelmed by his wife, normally accedes finally to her wishes. Mrs. Bainbridge is very highly strung and emotional. She has successfully cut across lines of authority, and unfortunately she does not appear to get on with any other members of her family either, as she and her husband are an isolated unit. In the village she is recognised as being a rather dangerous woman, who can twist the conversation to suit her own ends and the number of friends that they have outside the family is also very limited. Despite this however, the Bainbridge's have given love and care both to David and his Foster Brother, and have always acted in the best interests of the boys according to their “rights”. There was no question that within this family group there was a definite close feeling, leaving us with the tragedy that these foster parents, who are prepared to give so much to these boys, do not seem to be able to be guided to contribute in the right way.

Summary: Dr. T. felt that taking the whole of the picture into consideration, that there was no doubt that these boys would be better out of the home. At the age of eleven, whether even now we are too late to really alter the basic attitude that David might have absorbed towards colour and aggression, is a very serious consideration. (third party omission and end of transcript)…

So on that note, I think it’s a timely place to end the first eleven years of my life, which as formative instruction goes, can’t help but shape the person I am to become! So now let’s journey into the nineteen-seventies, and see what that brings...

CHAPTER 2: 1970 - 1978
Those Formative Years

Adult Content!

I’ve had to wrestle with this next entry for quite a while, but in the scheme of chronology and for showing any personal shaping, has to be mentioned I think, although it’s still going to be edited back from my more detailed recollection.

Around this same twelfth year or so, I began to notice that whilst watching TV...

 SENSITIVE TEXT PARTIALLY REMOVED AND ONLY AVAILABLE WITHIN THE BOOK

...It clearly became hardwired into my psyche, and would later become an inescapable part of my own burgeoning sexuality and erotic fantasy! Along with other damaging ingredients in my life, it certainly left me open to something of an emotionally twisted future, and in view of my thwarted attempts at having a girlfriend, also I think, lends a pertinent overview just here, and little wonder I was becoming a more confused, frustrated, and increasingly angry young man.

Adult Content!

WHO GOT TO PLAY WITH VIRGINAL PERCY?' As mentioned earlier, carnival day in Millbrook was an eagerly anticipated affair, and this year I was certainly up for it! I travelled home for bank holiday and after several beers, found myself locked in arms between two local lasses as we ambled our way to a house on the edge of the village for a party. A married woman - and local swinger - then proceeded to start to...

ADULT CONTENT REMOVED AND ONLY AVAILABLE WITHIN THE BOOK

...I’d gone miraculously from: “Where do I Put it Love?”, to “Mr. Astroglide!”, in what could more probably be better described now as a pun-laden coming of age.

CHAPTER 3: 1979 - 1983
Back Home 

CHAPTER 4: 1984 - 1989
The Last Chance Saloon Still Calls Me

...Now heading into a diary entry for February 1986 which reads:

"This day I must admit yet more Instability within the depths of deep depression, something altogether too frequent. I finally realise that this is an illness that I can no longer fight on my own. And will immediately pursue help accordingly - D. Low!”

CHAPTER 5: 1990 - 1993
Analysis Runs Amuck

(These are a few extracts from Chapter 5 from the unpublished autobiography with bold highlighted links to the accompanying 'Soundtrack To My Life')

CHAPTER 6: 1994 - 1999
More Testing Times Ahead

(These are a few extracts from Chapter 6 from the unpublished autobiography with bold highlighted links to the accompanying 'Soundtrack To My Life')

...What I now realised, was that each time I lost my temper, I was in effect, allowing somebody else to make a decision about where my life came out, to which I’m sure many a more remorseful prisoner could testify! This particular silence I find, at least offers a buffer zone for weighing up the benefit of any ill-judged response, it keeps perspective, and by its very nature, can rarely be misquoted! I’ve sometimes found that silence can also amplify what has just been said, and in the case of a racist rant or any over-the-top verbal outburst, has more than once shown the person up for what they really are, because their remark simply has nowhere else to go if you deprive it of food, and as such, has now become another one of my most trusted allies!...

...quote accredited to John F. Kennedy, although I first heard it spoken by James Mason in a war film about Rommel, where he said: “Victory has a thousand Fathers, defeat is an Orphan”! Speaking of which, and something I picked up on recently...

...if Your Mother and Father are dead, then doesn’t that make You,
an “Orphan” Too? And how in just one simple sentence, a life can suddenly
be Hoisted up the pecking order, and Instantly joins a family it had
never before even realised Existed...

“A love born of Deceit, even if it Rescues,
is always likely to carry in it’s cargo, Suspicion!” 

An attempt at some prose?: And my obvious Love for Millbrook!

 ‘Springtime’

Rabbits and nature itself, Refreshingly cavort ‘neath the Spring undergrowth. A Glorious sight indeed, as the ducks and birds flirtatiously spar on the Ripples of another year. Aaaaagh, the Joys of the awakening aroma, and the Sweet Smell of perfume, on This, another Spring Day, amidst the Natural Beauty of my Motherland...

…This Village, they call Millbrook!

Dave Low - May 4th 1995