Suffer the Little Children
When I was a child, I was quite the pious little thing. My parents were baffled by this – not being of the religious bent themselves, they found it increasingly perplexing that their offspring had, at the age of five, all of the makings of one of those horribly annoying and slightly scary child preachers. I remember very clearly that, at that time, I had been taught the prayer that went “if I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take.” I think this line of verse was the first time that I became aware of Death and what it actually meant. What’s more, it could happen at any time – including to me – and often at the time that you’re at your most vulnerable: Sleep.

It came to pass, then, that every night I would fervently pray; not for Mummy, or Daddy, or even DangerMouse, no: for the one thing I wanted most. To not die in my sleep. Sunday school was the order of the day every Sunday, my parents dutifully dragging me down to the Church Hall for a hard morning of Bible Study and fire, with possibly some brimstone and fearing for our mortal souls thrown in.

Spring came early in 1987, and it was then that the Nun who ran Sunday School informed us that we would be putting on a play for our parents. I’ll spare you the folly of what was called the audition process, and tell you only that I was entrusted with the part of Scarecrow. Quite how this character made it in to whatever play we were doing is lost to the annals of history, but it was mine, and I had endless fun pelting around the place with straw down my jumper, forgetting about my imminent death for a while.

The weeks rolled by, and eventually it was the day when, after Church, we put on our play. My mother was with me, gallantly stuffing my clothes with straw from the farm, painting rosy cheeks on my face and practicing my line with me. (Yes, I said line. Listen, as Stanislavski said, “There are no small parts, only small actors”, OK?) To finish off my costume, a broom handle was slid up the arm of my jacket, across my shoulders, and down the other arm. I now had no movement in my arms at all. I stood in the wings, my heart beating, feeling the stick of greasepaint on my skin. I was nervous. I felt... Funny. I opined such to my mother:

“Mummy,” said I, “I feel funny.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Spake she, her angelic features once again belying the evil that resides within her “you’ll be fine.” And, with a loving but firm shove, she pushed me on to the stage.

The memory of the performance is vague. It was probably much like many primary productions anywhere – stilted, overly cute and above all terrible. But these funny feelings in my stomach would not go away. As I stepped smartly forward to the front of the stage, the feeling became... urgent. My mouth tasted acidic, almost like pear drops. The handfuls of pear drops, in fact, that I had stuffed in to my mouth not half an hour sooner.

I opened my mouth. I breathed in. The world was about to witness my acting debut.

And then, with the grace and dignity of a boy who can’t move his arms thanks to a broom handle restricting them, I vomited. Copiously. I panicked, and tried to cover my mouth with my hands. Except I couldn’t, my arms were restricted by the broom handle. The momentum I had given my body in trying to cover my mouth changed the directory and therefore target of my expulsions. In horror, I turned again, now striking a third member of the front row with pear drop flavoured stomach acid. Soon, the flow stopped, and I collapsed to the floor. As I was carried from the stage, the hall was filled with the kind of deathly silence that is, at the same time, deafeningly loud.

As my mother wiped me down, Sister Mary (the Nun who ran the school) came through, and puce with rage was she.

“Devil. In. Tights.” She flustered “You are no longer welcome in this school!” Before I or my attendant parent could react, she turned on her heel and left the room, no doubt to continue her stirling work in the community.

And as for me? Well, that was the beginning of a long road to total loss-of-faith. And all because I was sick.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 17:19, 1 reply)

BAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAH!
*click*
(idle insomniac enjoys listening to Sigur Rós at stupid hours, Thu 19 Mar 2009, 18:06, closed)