There I am, taking it all in, looking up at the sunny sky every four to seven minutes and going “Can you feel that?” when a child not of my seed enters my life, and things take a turn for the worse.
The first sense he infiltrated was touch. His inflatable football, the beach variety, bounced off the back of my calves to the sound of giggling and hurried footsteps as a collective of children ran towards me to retrieve the ball. I noticed not even a quiet mutter of an apology from any of them, and I knew I was in trouble. I knew these were feral rats.
The second sense that took a beating was sight quickly followed by smell. When I turned to view them, my eyes started to become overwhelmed with confusion. Nothing quite added up. The small child boys had slicked back hair, jewellery on their wrists, mobile phones, designer polo shirts and more confidence than one can reasonably expect of child boys. My eyes couldn’t calculate these adult things on/in children. My nose was struck with aftershave I almost definitely couldn’t, or at a minimum, wouldn’t afford, and there was literally a whiff of aggression steaming out of their ears. It’s like they knew they’d grow up into someone who could beat me up, and may well have a chance there and then if they attacked like a pack of hyenas.
The last sense battered was what I’m calling sound/fear. I heard the words “Nice touch mate” shouted at me, which signalled the official end of any fun for me at the funfair. The child boy’s captain had stepped forward. A small, fat, confident, fat, aggressive, small male boy with spaghetti bolognese round his mouth. He thought he was it. Maybe he was. He was captain after all.
I couldn’t enjoy anything after that. Anywhere I went I could see him in my peripheral vision and if I got too close, he’d threaten to kick the ball at me again. It was impossible to challenge him too, if you imagine the kind of disillusioned confidence you’d have to have to leave the house with spaghetti bolognese across half your face and still think you’re the bee’s knees. He was unstoppable.
I managed a tiny conversation an hour later when I desperately tried to explain that I didn’t see the ball when it slapped the back of my calves and that I’ve actually got a pretty good touch. Needless to say, this didn’t befriend him and I still had to bend to his will.
Poem | Bolognese Boy
I wanted to help the boy,
Show him the error of his ways,
But the boy, was choosing his own path.
I wanted to thwart the boy,
Teach him the old fashioned way,
But the boy, was quite quick for a fat lad.
I wanted to stop the boy,
Put an end to the madness,
But the boy, had bolognese round his mouth.
Henry Mulligan 
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