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This is a question Running away

Two friends ran away from boarding school. They didn't get too far though - they forgot to check when the last train ran. A teacher found them sitting waiting and drove them back again.

That said, it's not just a thing kids do - the urge to just run is built into all of us. Tell us about the times you've given in and run.

(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 13:03)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I don't want the navy treatment
My dad was in the navy and was quite strict with me and my brothers (mainly because we were a bunch of hyperactive sods who like to nearly kill each other on a daily basis). He used to box and had hands that looked like they could punch through your face and come out the back of your skull, but he was a born-again christian and would never raise a hand to us. Despite the fact that he had a really rough and poor childhood, I never once heard him say 'Fuck'.

When I was fourteen, I liked to get his attention by telling him that there was no god and that people that believed in that sort of thing were just superstitious fools. Cue a heated argument where neither of us would listen to each other and eventually storm off to our respective santuaries (I had my bedroom, dad had the toilet).

One day I got a bit too passionate, started yelling, and eventually told my dad to 'Oh just fuck off!'.

The minute it was out of my mouth, I knew I'd finally pushed it a bit too far.

Long pause. Long, long pause.

It was the first time I'd ever told my dad to fuck off, and I think it shook him. He jumped up from the sofa and shouted, "That's it! You're going to get the full navy treatment now!" He then charged at me with death in his eyes.

Not wanting to find out what the 'full navy treatment' was, I ran around our thick oak dining table. We then did that 'one person walks around the table and the other walks the opposite way' dance. We did four circuits until, out of frustration, he banged his fist down on the table.

And fuck me, the fucking table broke in half.

I now believed I was dead for certain. I'd pushed him too far. He'd snapped. He'd just broken an inch-thick oak table in half with a single bang from one of his huge, meaty fists. What the hell was he going to do to me?

So I run upstairs into the bathroom, shut the door, lock it, and retreat to sit down on the toilet, quailing in fear. My non-violent, god-fearing, lovely father kicks the door down. I don't think he even broke his stride. It was like that final John Goodman scene out of Barton Fink.

I'm cornered in the bathroom and I'm convinced that I'm going to get the beating of my life. But my dad won't raise a hand to me. Even though he's broken a table and kicked a door in, he won't actually lay a finger on his son.

I leg it, and he lets me go. I run straight out of the house and keep going for about ten miles. I don't have any shoes on, don't have a coat, don't have anywhere to go, but I'm convinced I'm never going to return home. I want to punish my dad by making him worry. I want to disappear forever. And I'm so pumped on adrenalin that I've almost done a half marathon when normally I'd get out of running at school by strategically throwing up after the first lap.

People in the local shopping centre gave me odd looks but didn't do anything. After wandering around for a bit I got to thinking about my future as a runaway. I was hungry. My Fred Perry socks were damp. I was starting to wonder how I'd get to university if I was living in a cardboard box. Would the school accept me back during daylight hours if I smelled of piss?

Eventually I decided I might as well go back home and apologise to my dad. I was too middle class to rough it. I liked television and creme eggs too much.

I'm walking back down the main road to home and in the distance I see this large man riding a small lady's happy shopper bike. It's my dad. His car's broken down and he's feeling terrible about losing his temper. He's gone out in search of his son to profusely apologise. He's pedaling like a freak on my mum's little bike.

Despite the fact that I was going home anyway, I sprint off in the opposite direction. If I was going home, I was going to do it on my own terms. He'd never catch me!

I'd run too much that night though and I got a stitch. So I stopped and waited for my happy-shopper-riding, oak-table-breaking, toilet-door-toppling, born-again-christian, never-said-fuck-in-front-of-me father to catch up.

He does and he looks awful. This is a man who's deeply ashamed of losing his temper and he's been shit-scared enough of losing me or any harm coming to me that he's riden that fucking silly bike around town like a prize gimp. We exchange shameful glances and I walk with him home. Along the way we have a really good talk. I apologise. He apologises. We're good friends again.

I like to think of this as my rite of passage into adulthood. My dad talked to me like I was an adult after that day, and I never told him to fuck off again.

I'm also glad I never found out what the 'navy treatment' actually is.
(, Mon 14 Aug 2006, 22:51, Reply)
I Ran Away
By accident.

I was living in Newcastle when I got a call from a mate who lived in Manchester inviting me to a party so I packed my rucksack and hitched down too Mancland. I intended to stay for the weekend but got involved in an endless round of drinking, womanising and endless debauchery and somehow two years passed without me calling home or letting anyone know where I was.

Eventually I decided that enough was enough and headed home to see my folks. On arriving back in Newcastle I put my key in the door and walked into.....

A houseful of strangers.

Bloody parents had moved.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 13:28, Reply)
Having just watched Superman Returns, me and some friends were discussing the possibility of Superman and Lois Lane really conceiving a child together. The debate got quite ugly, and I ended up naked. I argued against the possibility on grounds of genetic incompatibility rather than the "Lois couldn't withstand the ejaculatory impact" approach. I used the analogy that, just because a man has intercourse with a horse, it doesn't mean the horse will give birth to a man-pony. This fuelled the debate further, and before long I decided to leave for my own safety.

I was walking through the city centre, the moon smiling down on me, the cool summer night's breeze kissing my elbows, the day's cumulative warmth radiating upwards from the concrete and onto my underchin, when I heard a voice from down an alleyway.
"I say, over there!" came the voice. It was not the voice of a child, but rather that of a squeaky adult. I peered through the darkness. Nothing. I walked on a couple of steps.
"What ho!" came the voice again, agitated now. The voice had become shaky beneath it's own density, making me stop again. I daren't move any further.
"Hello?" I called back, but the only reply was my own echo. "Is somebody there?" I expected some countrified dandy to stagger out and offer me a swig from his bottle of port. Instead, there was a huge explosion, and a dark figure was propelled out of the alley, knocking me to the ground before landing on its feet and towering over me. There before me was the very creature that I had only moments earlier denied: a man-pony. But this man-pony was fully grown, and more of a man-stallion, or Stally-man, as he would later introduce himself as while I wept.

The fearsome yet well turned out beast treated me to a beautiful few bars on its clarinet, the likes of which made me retch with shame, before setting the instrument down on the warm concrete floor and straddling me. The saliva was warm and matted my chest hairs together.

We stayed there for hours, then Stally-man simply disappeared into the night. When I came to my senses, I found that one of my nostrils had gone, presumably taken by that great nasal thief of the night, Stally-man.

I couldn't return home after that, and fled through the city, where I now reside in the shadows.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 16:34, Reply)
We had a thing at our school called Breakout. This was a yearly which was thoroughly encouraged by parents and staff alike and involved small groups (4-5 people) of students seeing how far away they could get from the school in 24 hours without spending any money i.e. hitch-hiking, begging etc. One year, the three finalists were as follows; in third place a group of kids got to Bath, in second 3 of the people in my year got to Bologne (North France, can't be bothered to check my spelling) but the winners, 4 girls from the upper sixth somehow managed to get to St Petersburg (yes, in Russia). Not a bad effort. They managed to sweet talk their way as part of a courier ticket, i think. Can't imagine anything like this ever being allowed nowadays. I refer the right honorable readers to the current nanny state image challenge.
(, Sun 13 Aug 2006, 14:07, Reply)
My mother ran away
She ran a few times. Once it was because we all said her cooking was inedible (it was). She stormed off and didn't come back for a week, during which time we all did our own cooking and cleaning. Nobody brought up the awkward subject of being motherless. When she came back, she seemed incensed that we'd just got on with it without her and not crumbled into destitution and cannibalism.

A few years ago she did it again. She was gone for a few days and came back to my dad saying, "Been for a walk, dear?"

I'm never having kids.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 13:31, Reply)
Roger, my pet hamster...

...once ran away. I'd had him for about 2 years when one morning I woke up to find his cage was empty. My parents told me not to worry and that he'd be back shortly. They were right, he returned a couple of days later.

He must have one hell of a 'running away' story to tell though, cos when he returned not only had he shrunk, but he was also a different colour.
(, Sun 13 Aug 2006, 11:44, Reply)
I once ran away from home
and the whole scene unfolded in a complex yet comical manner.
(, Sat 12 Aug 2006, 23:38, Reply)
I ran away...less than 5m...
One day, me and my mother had a small argument, and I declared that I was running away, so I go out the backdoor, and down the path and out the gate.

At this point I realised I had no shoes or socks on, and only a t-shirt and boxers on, so I went back in.

My mum, who had watched this out of the kitchen window said "Oh you're back! We've been so worried!"
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 15:33, Reply)
She's leaving...
At the tender age of three, I dramatically declared to my mother that I was "leaving forever". Rather than weep inconsolably and beg me to stay as I was expecting, she found me a little stick and a handkerchief to tie up my precious belongings in true hobo fashion, helped me to pack (one stuffed rabbit, one pack of sweets) and waved me goodbye at the door. Having been left (quite cheerfully by ma) to fend for myself, it was then that I realized that I was totally dependent on my parents, and that I needed them somewhat more than they needed me. I pouted for about a minute and a half and then rang the doorbell to be let back in.

My first, and last escape attempt.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 14:04, Reply)
I can't believe it's taken me all week to remember this
A few months ago my parents were clearing out a load of old papers and found this:

In case you can't read it very well, it says:
"Dear Dad
I am getting married
this is a goodbye letter
Love from your
Darter (sic)
I love you so much
I will cry"

I don't know how old I was, but it must have been during the period I was obsessed with the Disney film of The Little Mermaid. My dad now keeps it in a tankard thing on our fireplace - I think he wants to show my boyfriend in the event we get engaged. Great...
(, Thu 17 Aug 2006, 15:41, Reply)
Misspent Youth
This will be very long most likely. Apologies in advanced, but it's all true, and hopefully at least mildly entertaining.

When I was 14, my parents stuck me in a boarding school. Less than two weeks in, I ran away. Called my Dad from a phonebox and he said he'd come pick me up, and to wait there. Well he grassed me to the school and the most dreaded teacher in school appeared a few minutes to drag me back. My Dad DID come over to see me however. He did what was best for my safety, and even at the time I didn't hold it against him.

So, fast forward six months. We've just come back from summer holiday. The fifth year kids are put in charge, and of course go batshit insane power crazy. My bed squeaked. Everytime I moved, it squeaked. One of the fifth years saw this as a direct attempt at insubordination, and would punch me in the stomach when it did so. Delightful individual.

So I planned an elaborate escape. Well, elaborate for a 14 year old I guess. First of all, I told one of my few friends there I was planning on leaving, and would be doing so at midnight. This was a ruse, as I actually planned on leaving at 11:20pm. I wanted to tell him I was going at an exact time so if he decided to tell anyone because he was concerned, I'd be long gone. I did the usual cliche... Put pillows under the covers, shaped it to look like a body was there etc... Got dressed, packed my bag, and left a note under the pillow saying I'd left. (So they didn't think I'd been taken by Freddie Kruger or Gary Glitter or similar.)

I crawled out through the bathroom window (doors were locked, obviously) and ran through the grounds. ALMOST got caught by the groundskeeper as he was still up in his little shack, but I ducked and continued on and out of the gates.

Now I knew the route to get back to the main road. It was a seven mile hike though. I was sure I knew what I was doing, so I started walking.

Now I had a cunning plan. I thought "Cars will go past and see me walking... How can I alter my appearance. I know, I'll limp!" Yep, at 14 years of age, my great attempt at disguising myself was to limp. I was a scrawny little bastard so quite obviously a kid. Despite many MANY cars driving past me, not one stopped. No, my cunning disguise worked perfectly. The roads got pretty busy at a couple of points, and I thought for sure that any minute now, a police car would pull up and it'd all be over. Nope... I was left unmolested. (In every sense.)

About an hour into my epic quest, I made it to the bridge across the river. I was a couple of miles from the main road now. Yay! Nothing had stopped me so far. Bristling with renewed confidence that this was a plan of sheer genius, I kept trudging on. Not far to go. It was about 1am at this point. I figured I could be home by midday at the absolute latest.

Now came the tragic error. I had, apparently, not paid enough attention when travelling to the school... At the end of this road, I should have turned left down the main "A" road. My plan was to strike out for the Holiday Inn about 6 miles down that road from where I was at that point. By the time I got there, as the plan went, it'd be close to daylight. I could get to the Holiday Inn phones and not wake my parents that early, but early enough that I'd be the one to call them first, NOT THE SCHOOL! The key was to get there before 7am. At this point, I had about 5 hours to cover six miles. I didn't want my parents to be scared that something bad had happened to me.

So, with the planned destination one direction, I stupidly I went the other way, completely blivious to the fact that I was heading in the wrong direction. Somehow I managed to cross a busy motorway junction without getting obliterated, and was on my way. Every step, a step closer to freedom, adulthood, HOME.

Now I kept walking north, hoping to see something I'd recognise, which of course I didn't. By this point, it's about 2:30am. I've been walking that way for over an hour, and I have no idea where I am... So I admit defeat and go into a phonebox and call the police. Literally as I'm dialling, a police car pulls up. Despite being pretty scared by this point, I manage to crack a joke to myself... "Now THAT'S service".

Policeman asks me what I'm doing. I figure it's all over. I'm totally lost, no idea where I am. If I lie, he's going to be suspicious, so I may as well just tell the truth, so I just say "I'm lost. I've just run away from boarding school. Can you help me?" He helps me into the car and we go back to the station.

He calls my parents, but it'll be a while before they can get there because, obviously, they're asleep, so I'm going to be stuck in the police station for a bit. I remember being very tired, barely able to stay awake, and eating Kit-Kat's waiting for one or both of my parents to turn up. I remember being a little concerned about their reaction, but really, by this point, I didn't care.

Turns out it was my Dad that came to get me. I later found out my mothers reaction was "I'm not going anywhere. He can bloody stay there." and going back to sleep, thus setting the tone for a parental relationship that would end incredibly acrimoniously some 15 years later. (NOTE, this was the first time I'd ever done anything irretrievably stupid.)

My Dad wasn't mad that I remember. Just glad I was safe. I don't remember the drive home. What I do remember is that by getting lost, I'd apparently wound up in a really bad neighbourhood, and was told I was incredibly lucky to have not had anything very nasty happen to me there.

I was returned to boarding school the next afternoon. Teachers were all freaked out and eyed me with suspicion, like I'd just stumbled upon their stash of something illegal, or like by doing this, I had somehow stripped them of some power. It was really strange. The kids, who normally treated me like shit, treated me like the returning hero. "Would you like my dessert?" and that sort of thing. Got a few lectures from various authority figures, but mostly, things DID improve. Not sure if it was respect from the other kids, or the fact they thought I was deranged enough that I might stab them while they slept, but whatever the case, things were more bearable after that.

I never ran away again, though my parents took me out of the school a few months later, realising that me and boarding school would never get on, and that if they'd left me there, they may as well have just renamed me Hilts and bought me a baseball mitt...
(, Wed 16 Aug 2006, 23:28, Reply)
Never really ran away as such.
But I did enjoy going for night hikes on my own. I was quite young at the time, and worried that the 'rents wouldn't approve I tended to climb out the bedroom window (ground floor, house built on hill - front door is on the "middle" floor).

Until one day I decided I was big enough and grown up enough to walk out the front door. "Going out for a walk" I said nonchalently when I heard stirring from my parents' bedroom.

"Why don't you climb out the window like normal and not wake us up?" My mum replied.
(, Sat 12 Aug 2006, 9:11, Reply)
Walking Target
This is a long one. That's all you need to know. Skip if you no likee.

This was many years ago. I forget exactly when, but I've blotted it from my mind. The single most nerve-jangling thing that's ever happened to me, especially to someone not used to being faced with full-on, entirely malicious aggression. Nope, even the 3 travellers that hijacked my car one evening splattered head-to-toe in blood, doesn't quite beat it.

To be fair(ish), I was a pretty stupid-looking person at the time. Sporting an over-stretched, hugely baggy black and white jumper, pinstripe trousers, crap black shoes, a pineapple style haircut and some hefty extra weight, I was close to asking for it.

After an extended weed-smoking session with a friend in the windy seaside town of Hastings, I decided to make a dash for the last train home. Hastings is an easy place to coax weed-paranoia from the most level-headed of people at night, when the seafront is deserted, and all that can be heard is the clanking and creaks of the dilapidated flagpoles swaying in the icy breeze. There's also lots of places to lurk.

As I rounded the corner towards a set of steps, a figure lurched out of a shop doorway. Well over six feet, pale, and sporting few of his own teeth, and undeniably menacing, he might as well have had 'crack addict' (which was pretty rife in Hastings at the time) branded on his pock-marked forehead. 'Got a cig, mate?' he rasped. Being a naive fool, I said 'yes, of course', and handed over my rolling gear. He pocketed that. 'I need a tenner', he said. 'I don't have any money', I answered nervously, as I began to cotton on. I really didn't. No change, no cashcard, as I was hoping to hop the train home gratis. 'If you don't give me some money, I am going to fucking stab you. I've got a knife in my pocket'. 'I don't want to miss my train', I squeaked. Wrong move. Now he had a bargaining chip. 'I'll get you to your train, mate. I'll get you there safe'. Somehow, I didn't believe him. Especially as he was trying to herd me off in the opposite direction.

These sort of exchanges continued as we wandered ever further from the station, with the possibility of catching the train receding into the distance. The threats grew ever more excessive 'I don't care if you have any money, I'm going to slice you from ear-to-ear anyway' was a choice example. He was enjoying himself, simply because he knew I was shitting it. I needed a plan, and I needed one soon.

The amount of shops were starting to thin out as we moved towards the estates, and very few of the non-junk food variety would be open by now. The streets were deserted. We were drawing close to a dingy kebab shop, and I realised this might be my last chance - he wouldn't try to do me over in front of anyone, would he? Would he? As we passed by, I dodged inside, with a mutter of 'I'm hungry'. He followed. The two men behind the counter visibly flinched at the sight of him. I ordered some chips, and he ordered them to get him a glass of water. As we stood at the counter, me with a helpless look on my face, and him hissing in my ear that if we didn't walk out of here soon, he would cut me up in front of everyone, and four years would be nothing to him, the realisation dawned - no-one in here would help. No-one would even phone the coppers. They were more scared of him than I was. Shit.

'Let's go, you fuckin Southern poof!' - I couldn't conceivably delay it any longer. It was time to go. One last chance to get out of this, or be damned. As we were about to exit, I noticed he was still holding his glass of water. 'Can't take that with you, mate', I piped up. 'oh yeah', he rasped, and turned to put it back down on the counter. This was it - run like fuck to wherever. I was off. And so was he. I was no athlete, being a smoker, and a fat bastard simultaneously, but sheer adrenalin was going to keep me moving. It had to. I chanced a look back. he was still in hot pursuit - but this time, the possibly-fictional-but-can't-be-sure blade was in full view, gleaming everytime the moonlight hit it. Run like you've never run before, you flaccid waster. I don't know how long I was running, but when I finally stopped, it felt like my lungs were caving in, my breath a racking wheeze. If he was still on my tail, I was fucked. But I listened hard, not wanting to turn round, and heard nothing except the lap of the sea, and distant yells of the drunk. It was a long, slow walk home.

I didn't go anywhere near Hastings for the next couple of weeks, and told no-one why. By telling no-one why, i ran out of excuses pretty quickly, and was finally coaxed along to a drum 'n' bass night at a dingy club. All was pretty peachy for a couple of hours - amateur MC's shouting themselves hoarse, some tunes I knew here and there - and then, i saw him. Standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, wearing a long, black trenchcoat, staring straight at me. I'd undergone a hasty makeover during that time, the least of which a full headshave, but it was a very, very tense moment. I broke his gaze, and stared at my drink, pondering a throat-slitting demise. I looked back up, and he was gone. I've never seen him since, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

Apologies for length. That is all.
(, Mon 14 Aug 2006, 13:28, Reply)
Damn that nan and her foresight!
Once in the mid-eighties, when I was around the age of five, it was during the summer holidays spent at my house with my Nan who looked after me while my parents were at work (i'm an army brat!) Cant remember the whys and wherefores of my deciding to run away, but I marched up to my dear nan who was engrossed in a copy of 'Yours' and declared my intentions. "Thats nice dear, you go right ahead!" she said sweetly. Full of excitement i put on my little bag, and into the bag put in my rations of a banana and club biscuit.

Putting on my red wellies (yes it was summer, but I loved those red wellies!) I went up to the door, reached up to the latch and....well nothing. I couldnt reach it!!! I ran back to nan and asked her to help me open the door. She smiled her mystic nan smile and said she would in a moment, she just wanted to finish the article she was reading. I went and sat on the stairs to wait and fell asleep.

She never did open the bloody door for me. My plan was foiled! *shakes fist*
(, Mon 14 Aug 2006, 10:16, Reply)
Whilst in America

I was in Atlanta about 10 years ago and I ran away from 7 black men who were after me. The chase only lasted about 10 seconds, but I was awarded an Olympic Gold medal and a new Commonwealth Record.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 23:14, Reply)
Gotta love those Train Conductors...
I was a bit of a dramatic child, and whenever anything didn't go my way i'd do something extreme to get a reaction. Thankfully i'm (slightly) more mature now.

Anyway, when I was about 11 or 12 I decided to run away, not as i'd done in the past, down the local park with a sleeping bag and a couple of packets of crisps, but to Scotland, where the majority of my family live. I had no idea how, but decided to walk down to the motorway and try and hitch. The motorway is quite a way away, and I got a lot of funny looks walking along the back roads with no pavements to get there.

When I finally reached the motorway (the A14) I stuck my thumb out and hoped for the best. There weren't many takers, and after about an hour I was about to give up when a small Fiat pulled up behind me. I ran to the car and was greeted with a man with long hair and in a Metallica T-Shirt. As we drove along, I told him my plan, and to his credit, he didn't tell me to stop being a muppet, instead he said he would buy me a ticket for the train, on the condition I get permission from my mum. So we get off the motorway and head back into Cambridge to his mate's house to use his phone.

My mum didn't answer, and the guy couldn't be convinced to buy me the ticket anyway. I had my heart set on the train plan now, and was going to do it, no matter what. So the guy took me to the train station anyway, and rather than buying me a ticket, gave me a tenner for some food on the way.

I was shitting myself, as the furthest i'd bunked the train before was a couple of stops on the local village route. I got out at Peterborough, having no idea what to do next. So I got on a train to Sheffield. On the way I was asked for a ticket, which of course I didn't have. I told the conductor my story and he took pity on me. He got his map out, and told me the route to go, and the times of the trains to catch. I had to spend the night in Sheffield Train Station, not a nice experience when you're a scared 11 year old and the waiting room is full of weird people you don't know. Thankfully nothing happened and I got the 6 am train to Glasgow.

I'd like to meet the driver of the Fiat and the Conductor again to thank them, as without them I would have got no-where near Glasgow in double the time.

A two day journey to Scotland me and my family will never forget.
(, Wed 16 Aug 2006, 18:36, Reply)
I ran away from Australia once...
I'd been seeing an Australian girl (in England) whose visa had ran out. We'd got on well, had a lot of laughs and were sad to part. I decided to sort my debt out, save some money and go and see her. She knew of this plan, and seemed well up for it.

I can remember the moment when I got off the plane. I'd just had a 24 hour journey, and had scrimped, saved, lived of sugar sandwiches and baked beans on toast for the previous 8 months (I even gave up beer!). When I saw her I instantly knew something wasn't right, and after a bit of questioning found out that she wasn't up for it. Great.

It would have been nice ot find this out BEFORE I got on the plane. Before I bought the ticket would have been even nicer. Before I made any life altering decisions would have been nicer still... or so I thought.

So I bought a ticket to Thailand and left as soon as I could.

Then this happened.

Then I hooked up with the girl I was in the cell with in the other story (classy eh?). Next thing I know I'm on a bus to Isaan to go and meet her parents.

It was kind of cool being up there in a little village at her folks house, what with big cows roaming their garden, their lack of front door, and going fishing using a mad net thing with her uncle. All was good until her mum sat down next to me and started talking to me in Thai. I got said girl to translate: "My mum say, because I number one daughter and people in village see me with you, you must get engaged to me to show you have proper respect for my family".

So I ran away to the furthest corner of Thailand I could. I got a job giving out flyers on the beach for a nightclub. Life was good. I got free beer.

Then I met a swiss guy with his own long tail boat, he was going on a mission further south. So I ran away with him, my girlfriend at the time and his 2 swiss kids. It was probably the best adventure I've had.

If you run away enough you're bound to end up with something good.

(, Wed 16 Aug 2006, 16:27, Reply)
Used to work at a kids' home
where we spent a lot of time trying to track down teenagers who ran off.

The TV series 'Band Of Gold' was popular at the time, and the kids stupidly believed that proz life was like that - you know, old tarts wi' 'earts o'gold takin' care o' the young'uns...

When in truth the career path involves standing around in the freezing cold for hour after hour, night after night, year after year, only kept awake by speed and always in debt to the pusher, counting the time in blow-jobs till you can fall into a grubby bed in a noisy shared bedsit, and so on.

The police would look out for girls or lads under 16, and bring them back, but after 16 they were on their own.

One time, I was sent from the gloomy North to Rose Road police station in Brum to collect a runaway girl. I got there at 3am and was asked to take back another girl too. They'd had a week or so of trying the 'Life'.

I wasn't supposed to take more than one in case they overpowered me and took the Social Services car, but I took pity and we were soon on way back.

They'd had a narrow escape. They'd been picked up by the police when a pimp's house was raided for drugs, and were under arrest for possession. This was actually for their own protection, as the charges would be dropped if they agreed to go 'home' with me.

In fact, the police had actually raided the house, not for drugs, but to 'release' some underage girls who were 'working' from there: they had to arrest them for something else as they couldn't get them out any other way.

'My' girl was still defiant and refused to co-operate, so one of the bobbies produced a file. He said, I'm going for a brew now, and I've carelessly left this file here. If you naughtily read it, you'd find out what your good friend the pimp is really like.

Of course she did look, and read about his string of convictions for assaults on girls her age in the course of his 'work'. She was glad to come back with me.

I'd like to think that she and the other girl learned their lesson, went back to school and became model citizens. More likely though, they're drug-addicted prozzies, in prison, or dead.
(, Tue 15 Aug 2006, 18:38, Reply)
From Aighburth to the Equator
So the ex-girlfriend from Liverpool (who I never got over, obviously) gets back in touch.

I take a week off work and head up to Liverpool to see whether maybe, just maybe, we can take that resilient little spark of passion, still smouldering after eight years, and with it, reignite the flames of love.

We have one perfect day, after which she declares that she can't handle the intensity of her feelings for me, and blanks me out of her life forever.

So I buy a one-way ticket to Thailand.

It's quite nice here. Bit hot though.
(, Sat 12 Aug 2006, 16:44, Reply)
Spelling It Out
Once, in a fit of pique, I took the letters from the Scrabble box and spelled out "I have ran away to join the circus" right in the middle of the living room carpet before waltzing out of the front door and onto the road to freedom.

I was 24.


Less kudos was gained when I returned from the pub and found my parents not even bothering to look for me. I'd been gone for hours! I expected at least a "where have you been?" but all I got was a "clear that crap off the living room floor before you go to bed you daft drunken sod".

One of these days I just won't come back. Then they'll be sorry. Oh yes!
(, Sat 12 Aug 2006, 16:55, Reply)
I was a simple child
When I was 11 I ran away because I didn't want to go to my flute lesson. I took my beloved guinea pig, Gilbert and put on my coat and wandered the streets for 20 minutes singing Tainted Love by Soft Cell.

When my dad found me after 20 minutes, his response was "So I see you've brought Gilbert. Is he for company or food?"

My mum then made me go to the flute lesson, and when we arrived, told my flute teacher why exactly we were 20 minutes late. :(
(, Mon 14 Aug 2006, 19:56, Reply)
Not away from home, but very much away
Despite being a sweet and innocent looking young girl, fresh faced and blonde, for some reason old people always hate me. You know how in horror films, dogs start barking at the approach of evil? It's much the same with me. All I have to do is walk past a Nursing Home and you can hear the inmates wailing and pissing themselves in sheer outrage at my presence. Fortunately, I don't like old people much either, so this generally doesn't bother me.

A few years back, when I was still attending Sixth Form College, we had free periods, during which we were allowed to roam the local town in our school uniforms, being model members of society, etc. So I was taking advantage of this, and had wandered out to get a sandwich and enjoy the sunshine and a brief respite from Organic Chemistry. A little old lady appears out of nowhere, her hunchback casting a shadow of gloom on the pavement before her, glaring up at me through NHS specs and a cloud of fluffy white hair.

'Shouldn't you be in school?'

'I have a free period at the moment,' I replied, very pleasantly, and attempted to sidestep her.

'DON'T LIE!' she screeched, and started hitting me wildly with her handbag, still wailing like a wrinkly siren. This left me with a dilemma. I could fight back, and be an out of control teenage granny-beater or I could try and reason with her. Except she was hitting me pretty hard, and I didn't like it. So I ran. I ran as fast as possible.

These days, I cross the road when I see an old person coming.
(, Sat 12 Aug 2006, 0:41, Reply)
Oh oh yes
I threatened to run away when I was 10

When I ran to my bedroom to pack a bag, I got tired, but didn't want to sleep on my bed (which was a big hollow cabin bed with drawers) incase my parents found me and I had to admit defeat. So I pulled out the drawers, crawled inside the bed, pulled the drawers back in from inside, and fell asleep.

A few hours later I woke up, it was really dark and I couldn't move as my arms were numb. This meant I couldn't pull the drawers out. My crying woke my parents up, and it took about half an hour for them to realise where I was

I'm chlaustrophobic now :[
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 19:38, Reply)







(Instrumental Bridge)






length is irrelevant when you're a dog with a neckerchief....
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 14:21, Reply)
Are you wearing ears?
Ah, one happened just this weekend at The Big Chill.

I was dressed as a sailor. Whilst walking through the event to meet some friends, I chanced upon a girl who was also dressed as sailor.

Laughs were had, photos were taken and everyone was in grand festival spirits.

I then turned to her friend, pointed at her cute pixie ears and delivered the immortal line:

"So are you wearing ears then?"

She was not.

The sight of her crestfallen face was burnt into my retina as I ran away mortified.

I wouldn't have minded but she was really pretty. (They both were) When I tried to apologise a few minutes later she told me to fuck off :-(

Fucking lesbian.

edit: ah.. wrong kind of running away.. took it a bit literal like.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 13:47, Reply)
No going back
Mrs Grimdsale (name changed to protect the innocent) ran away from home in 1984; that was the year I met her. Since then I’ve met her mother just twice and one of her six siblings just once. She left with a couple of bags after dropping out of college and finding a job and a bedsit. She did have a very good reason though, her Dad had got out of prison and her Mum let him come round for Christmas dinner. When Mrs G refused to come out of her room she was told she was spoiling Christmas. It was her that prevented the same thing happening to her two little sisters that had happened to her.

Sometimes it’s right to run away. Sometimes she’s tempted to get in contact to see whether the old bastard is dead yet, but she hasn’t bothered yet.

Sorry to bring you all down, but we’ve had 20 happy years (for the most part) and have brought up a healthy happy daughter. THIS is home: where the heart is.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 13:44, Reply)
Smarter than your average ape.
I legged it when I was about 8 after a silly row with my parents over something, I packed a plastic bag with all my favorite He-Man figures and away I went - down to the local field.
My Parents could see me from the house and I could hear them laughing too.
It didn't seem so funny when they realised I had also taken 500 Quid from my dads secret money hiding place and I was asking passers by for a lift by offering them a wodge of cash.

Get in!
(, Wed 16 Aug 2006, 12:37, Reply)
not so much running away, but rather sliding away
Back in days of old when I were a 5 year old midget, there was a blizzard the likes that Swansea has not quite seen again. Snow drifts upon snow drifts upon ice; this was a bastion of evil weather conditions rolled into one.

After the storm had calmed down, the heavens gently dropped what was left of its cloud-cargo and let us humans be. This left a grey sky and white, which was upto 6 feet deep in places.

My family lived on the side of a steep hill in a place called "Blaen-y-maes" (if anyone knows Swansea, they know this place, tis rougher than a duck-on-a-sandpaper-diet's shit). This road (Penplas Road if anyone knows it) was about a mile long was covered in snow and thick ice, slippery and deadly to the touch.

Cue my family coming back from me grans, and having to abandon the car at the top of the hill because it was simply too dangerous to drive down this road. We get out, and me in me wellies slips backwards and slides ALL THE WAY DOWN THE HILL. I must've reached about 30mph or so because my dad was fully sprinting, and I can remember spinning 360 and seeing him not being able to keep up with me. Thankfully a random snow drift at the bottom of the hill had formed and I smacked straight into it. Me dad found me 5 minutes later by a loose mitten dangling on top of the mound.
(, Mon 14 Aug 2006, 11:45, Reply)
Cardboard Box
Quite a few times when I was small I decided I would run away from home, but I never actually did much more than dreaming about it. The furthest I got was to put some kind of a stick through the side of a cardboard box (to pull it with) and fill it with clothes from the dressing up box. I don't know how on earth I thought I was going to manage with no food or money, but a massive pile of my Granny's old clothes and a selection of humorous hats. I got to the bottom of the stairs and the box fell apart, so I just stayed at home.
(, Fri 11 Aug 2006, 15:26, Reply)
Longest toilet break ever...
... working at a large company in Brighton, let's pluck a name at random and call it AMEX, and after a fortnight of being shouted at, belittled, baffled and bamboozled at having to a complex job with NO TRAINING WHATSOEVER...

... about five months ago one Friday I thought, "hey, it's Friday, to hell with this load of shitballs" so I decided to rock n' roll with a cheerful toilet break.

Having announced my intentions in polite terms, I stood up. Got my coat. Got my bag. Started walking. And walked past the toilets. Got in the lift. Pressed the button for "Ground Floor." I walked past the turning for the cafe, through the turnstiles and out of the revolving doors.

I'm thirty, I'm going grey, I've had enough of working for The Man. I figure I looked a little like George Clooney in the opening scenes of Out Of Sight.

Or perhaps my former colleagues are still sat there beside an empty desk thinking "he's been gone a long time."
(, Tue 15 Aug 2006, 10:00, Reply)

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