A tale of Young Davros and the floppy clown
Since I don’t have kids of my own, I might be a bit restricted for material this week. (What do you mean, thank fuck for that)?

I do have nieces and a nephew, but see them rarely, so will have to wrack my brains to think of anything amusing to write about them. And sweary junior is Tourette’s territory.

So, for the moment I offer up this tragedy from my past, which also incorporates a common phobia for many and another childhood fear of my own that I completely forgot about. I still remember this vividly, and the scars run deep.

Way back in the mists of time (oh, alright, 1973), when I was still part of a traditional nuclear family and Jon Pertwee was driving around on the telly in a funny yellow car, my Dad was in the RAF. Consequently we moved around a bit, but would return every so often to the hometown whenever my Dad was on leave. This would involve travelling by train, as neither parent drove. On one particular trip back home, my nan presented me with a gift.

A hand-knitted, floppy clown.

I loved that clown, and carried it everywhere from that point on. There I’d be, dragging this clown around with me (think Linus and his security blanket) everywhere I went. Clown didn’t mind. Clown was busy counting the days down to the time when he would be regarded as really scary by children, and was merely biding his time, content to be dragged around by his leg by a snotty child until the time came when he could induce nightmares.

Until one day, when we were heading back to the hometown. I had resisted all gentle pleas from my Mum to pack clown in a suitcase, and had insisted in my 3 year old wisdom that clown was happy being dragged around by his foot. And so clown accompanied me into the railway station, head bouncing along the platform, and we headed for our train which was waiting to be boarded.

Unfortunately, climbing on board trains in those days was a bit of a tall order for small children as the gap between the step and the platform looked unfeasibly huge. This is where my forgotton about phobia kicked in – as a kid I was always terrified that I was going to fall down between the gap, and usually had to be lifted into the carriage. By both hands. One of which was dragging clown behind me, and which instinctively let go of clown in order to be safely hoisted onto the train. All I remember was seeing clown disappearing between the gap and down onto the track below…

Apparently I was inconsolable for the whole journey, my tear ducts unleashing a torrent that would have rivalled High Force waterfall. Even the nice man that offered me a chocolate bar couldn’t stem the flow of tears. The train guards tried to reach down with a long stick, but it was no good.

Clown was gone forever, and a little bit of me died with him on that train track…
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 17 Apr 2008, 16:44, 6 replies)

Awww!
poor you. Even though clowns are evil.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 17 Apr 2008, 16:47, closed)

*sniff*
and *click*

Nothing hand-knitted can be evil.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Thu 17 Apr 2008, 16:54, closed)

No!
Any QOTWers knit? We must redress the balance!

Not me though, can't stand clowns! ;)
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 17 Apr 2008, 17:11, closed)

.
oh no,
i hate it, I mean REALLY hate it when kids loose their favourite toys, it actually quite upsets me.
Its one of the saddest things I can imagine, same goes for finding a dropped teddy bear or something in the street, I cant help but think of the anguish that teddys owner is going through.

No idea why, I dont like kids at all, I reckon this stems from deeply buried childhood trauma involving loosing a toy that I have suppressed permanantly.
(dave likes cheese, Thu 17 Apr 2008, 17:28, closed)

*clicks*
Beautifully told. Full of poignancy.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 17 Apr 2008, 17:29, closed)

Similarly
I had a small bear called Benji that went everywhere with me. I was travelling down to Devon on the train with my parents and took Benji with me. I'd put him in a pocket of my rucksack with his head poking out "so he could still breathe"...

~~~~~~ 'wavy lines to indicate uneventful train journey'

I disembarked from the train at Exeter, completely none the wiser, until i looked up and through the train window to see Benji sat on the table as the train pulled away...

inconsolable does not come close... still brings a tear to my eye now...

I also have another bear called smebby. He was my grandad's when he was a child, then my dad's and then mine. He's about 70 something years old now and sits in pride of place in his own chair in my bedroom.

Hopefully i'll someday be able to give him to my kids.
(Nuclear Ninja like a radioactive Chuck Norris..., Fri 18 Apr 2008, 11:47, closed)