When I was little I used to hide under my bed. I would take with me a book and a torch and read for hours. Sometimes my mother would shout me out, and I would hurry downstairs to be 'sociable', as she called it. What she wanted was for us all to pretend we were a happy family. We weren't. My second best hiding place, after she had flushed me out with her terrier temper, was behind the sofa. Here I would also read, or do my homework. I always got A's for my work. I suspect the teachers didn't realise that I was doing it tucked behind a sofa whilst crappy 70s sitcoms blasted out of the TV. Sometimes she would make me sit with the rest of the family. I would gently rock myself, disappearing off into my world of dreams.
"Stop rocking!" she would bellow. "You look like an abused child!"
Really? Did I really look like an abused child? Then why didn't she know?
"Stop rocking!" she would bellow. "You look like an abused child!"
Really? Did I really look like an abused child? Then why didn't she know?
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