It's Not What You Think Read Online Free
Author: Chris Evans
Tags: Fiction, Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts
This was the master stroke.
Had Mum told Dad? Had Mum told Dad and Dad had decided to let it go? Had Mum told Dad so he knew what had happened and then Dad told Mum that he would pretend he didn’t know what had happened; making her look more compassionate in the process?
Whatever the scenario, it worked like a dream. I remember Mum would often sit there for the rest of the night and every time I glanced her way she would give me one of those motherly knowing looks, the count-yourselflucky look. She would then also go on to benefit from several days of me loving her even more for not grassing me up to the big guy.
Our dinner, or tea as we referred to it, was often prefixed with the phrase, ‘Your tea’s on the table!’
And it would be, literally. We would join the dinner table at the last possible minute where we would remain for not a second longer than it took to wolf our food down. We were not a family who sat and chatted, at least not over tea, not much over anything to be honest. My poor mum would make a proper full-on meal every night and we would all reward her by sitting down for no more than seven or eight minutes before leaving her as quickly as we’d arrived with the ingratitude of a huge heap of dirty plates and pans to wash up. No wonder she’s never been that impressed when I cook her a meal!
I don’t know when Mum and Dad did their chatting—if they ever chatted at all. I’m guessing they did, but maybe not—my sister and I were pretty much around all day, every day, and I can never remember them having any private time whatsoever to speak of. I never heard them argue, that’s for sure—not the once. Maybe there wasn’t that much to discuss or argue about. We were a simple family unit with simple family needs. Maybe they really were the happiest couple in the world or maybe Dad did have a secret life and thought the less he said about anything the better.
When it came to ‘S-E-X’, for example, the mere suggestion of any of our family talking to teach other about such a subject would have caused us all to flee the house screaming. Most families that I knew were the same.
All of my friends and I, without exception, had absolutely no formal training in the science or art of anything to do with what goes on between a boy and a girl down below from any of our parents. Now, I really loved Mum and Dad, but come on guys, you have to tell your kids about the thrills, the spills and ultimately the pills that surround the desires of the flesh.
I didn’t get the information from my parents, I didn’t get it from my elder sister or brother and I didn’t get even get it from school—well, not really. I had to fumble around and figure the whole tawdry affair out for myself. I’m not saying it wasn’t fun or exciting, but a guiding hand would not have gone amiss. If you’ll forgive the expression.
Top 10 Resounding Memories of Primary-school Life
10 Mr Warburton, the school caretaker, who looked like he’d been cast from Grange Hill. He was perfect: brown overall, flat cap, pipe, black plastic specs, the works
9 Mr Antrobus, our headmaster saying, ‘If you can’t say anything good about a person don’t say anything at all’
8 Going swimming once a week on a big red Routemaster bus, never having enough time to get dried properly afterwards and wondering how come the other kids didn’t seem to have this problem—did they have special quick drying skin?
7 The hot chocolate from the vending machine after swimming
6 The first day I told my dad it would probably be a good idea if he stopped kissing me goodbye outside the school gates when he dropped me off
5 Making plasticine puppets that took me ages to produce and then performing a play with them on a stage constructed out of a crisp box (they’d fall to pieces before the end of the first page of dialogue)
4 The kid who thought it was hilarious to defecate anywhere but in the toilet cubicles—his tour de force
Had Mum told Dad? Had Mum told Dad and Dad had decided to let it go? Had Mum told Dad so he knew what had happened and then Dad told Mum that he would pretend he didn’t know what had happened; making her look more compassionate in the process?
Whatever the scenario, it worked like a dream. I remember Mum would often sit there for the rest of the night and every time I glanced her way she would give me one of those motherly knowing looks, the count-yourselflucky look. She would then also go on to benefit from several days of me loving her even more for not grassing me up to the big guy.
Our dinner, or tea as we referred to it, was often prefixed with the phrase, ‘Your tea’s on the table!’
And it would be, literally. We would join the dinner table at the last possible minute where we would remain for not a second longer than it took to wolf our food down. We were not a family who sat and chatted, at least not over tea, not much over anything to be honest. My poor mum would make a proper full-on meal every night and we would all reward her by sitting down for no more than seven or eight minutes before leaving her as quickly as we’d arrived with the ingratitude of a huge heap of dirty plates and pans to wash up. No wonder she’s never been that impressed when I cook her a meal!
I don’t know when Mum and Dad did their chatting—if they ever chatted at all. I’m guessing they did, but maybe not—my sister and I were pretty much around all day, every day, and I can never remember them having any private time whatsoever to speak of. I never heard them argue, that’s for sure—not the once. Maybe there wasn’t that much to discuss or argue about. We were a simple family unit with simple family needs. Maybe they really were the happiest couple in the world or maybe Dad did have a secret life and thought the less he said about anything the better.
When it came to ‘S-E-X’, for example, the mere suggestion of any of our family talking to teach other about such a subject would have caused us all to flee the house screaming. Most families that I knew were the same.
All of my friends and I, without exception, had absolutely no formal training in the science or art of anything to do with what goes on between a boy and a girl down below from any of our parents. Now, I really loved Mum and Dad, but come on guys, you have to tell your kids about the thrills, the spills and ultimately the pills that surround the desires of the flesh.
I didn’t get the information from my parents, I didn’t get it from my elder sister or brother and I didn’t get even get it from school—well, not really. I had to fumble around and figure the whole tawdry affair out for myself. I’m not saying it wasn’t fun or exciting, but a guiding hand would not have gone amiss. If you’ll forgive the expression.
Top 10 Resounding Memories of Primary-school Life
10 Mr Warburton, the school caretaker, who looked like he’d been cast from Grange Hill. He was perfect: brown overall, flat cap, pipe, black plastic specs, the works
9 Mr Antrobus, our headmaster saying, ‘If you can’t say anything good about a person don’t say anything at all’
8 Going swimming once a week on a big red Routemaster bus, never having enough time to get dried properly afterwards and wondering how come the other kids didn’t seem to have this problem—did they have special quick drying skin?
7 The hot chocolate from the vending machine after swimming
6 The first day I told my dad it would probably be a good idea if he stopped kissing me goodbye outside the school gates when he dropped me off
5 Making plasticine puppets that took me ages to produce and then performing a play with them on a stage constructed out of a crisp box (they’d fall to pieces before the end of the first page of dialogue)
4 The kid who thought it was hilarious to defecate anywhere but in the toilet cubicles—his tour de force
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