Adventures of a Ginger Kid

Fiona Ritchie

Description

Quite a few families have more than one child. George and Mary Ritchie were lulled into a false sense of security with their firstborn, naively believing that their son was just the start of a peaceful, joyous life that could only be enhanced with another sibling. So, when a ginger-haired, podgy-pink kid with hiccups arrived on a bitterly cold December morning, they were beginning to think changes might be afoot. The new parents had no idea a child could be born with a hand on their hip...but their adventure had only just started...and their new daughter would be the greatest birth control for the future.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781528961974
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Adventures of a Ginger Kid
Fiona Ritchie
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-31
Adventures of a Ginger Kid About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Almost at the Beginning Infants School A Greenstick Facture in the Junior School Sports Day at Infants School Nativity at the Infants School The Corner Shop Walking to School Telegraph Poles The Train Journey Grandma Knows Best Learning to Swim Jigsaws What Is Mrs Brown Doing to Nathaniel? Tying Shoelaces Nursery Birthday Party The Two Peters Broken Leg (Someone Else’s) Ballet, Tap, Brownies and All Things After School Bruce and the Suitcase Priory Park Trustee Savings Bank Fanny by Gaslight All Sorts of Anomalies Shopping with Grandma By the Seaside Independence Day in Boots Left and Right Bangers and Mash More Big Knickers
About the Author
Life in Cornwall was pretty good for the Ritchie family. The parents had a beautiful and well-behaved baby boy who giggled his way through bath time and slept through the night at eight weeks of age. The fearsome trio were kind, considerate, popular and genuinely happy for three and a half years, and then Fiona came along.
Dedication
Mum, Bruce and Dad.
Copyright Information ©
Fiona Ritchie (2020)
The right of Fiona Ritchie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528917643 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528961974 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgment
With thanks to the love, patience and ongoing ‘putting up’ with me. Without my family, there would be no book to giggle over and share with.
Almost at the Beginning
‘I can’t hear you if you’re whining,’ my mother stated to me – her five-year-old daughter, after I sulkily asked for an ice cream.
‘Mummy, please may I have an ice cream?’ I asked in a clear bright voice.
‘No.’
I don’t recall crying because the shock stopped me.
I am the younger of two siblings, sister to my big brother Bruce, who luckily for Mum was never a verbose son, so I more than made up for the chatter in the house.
My parents both had dark hair and blue eyes, so things were looking good when my brother was born. He had a mass of blonde curls and blue eyes. He was so stunning my father would carry him on his arm knowing how passers-by would coo, spoil and fuss. Being a June baby, this was a feasible mode of transport.
My face had been squashed in the womb so when I made my appearance, I had no nose in profile, just a red splat in the middle of my head which over a few days sorted itself out. I was also born hiccupping and with a shock of ginger hair. My father was eternally grateful that I arrived in December so he didn’t feel obliged to carry me around.
People would approach Mum as she pushed her new born in the handed-down silver cross pram expecting to see another stunner. One glance in to see the red mass they would politely pass comments like, ‘Oh! You’ve had a…um…baby – it is a baby, isn’t it?’ or ‘It’s a girl?’ And for further consolation would add, ‘At least you’ve got a son.’

Infants School
Some children are born with a silver spoon in their mouth but I was born with a clipboard. From the moment I could stand, I could organise. On the rare occasions my parents had friends around for a party, I was the one handing out broken biscuits on a doily-covered plate. Mum never knew she even had doilies and it amazed her what I used to come up with for the sake of making a nicer presentation.
Bruce was three and a half years older than me. Mum would walk him and describe nature as the seasons changed. She would point to trees in the local park and say things like, ‘This one is an oak tree – look at the shape of the leaves and see the acorns!’ adding, ‘And this is a silver birch, an elm, a string of plane trees and an ash – and look, these flowers are daisies – lean forward so you can smell the freesias, roses, honeysuckle, cowslips, daffodils and foxgloves.’
After a brief pause, Mum would look around the bushes and ground and say to Bruce, ‘And look over there! See the robin red breast, the thrush, black bird, blue tit and woodpecker!’
By the time I was at that age, Mum would simply point and say, ‘Look Fiona – tree, flower, bird.’
I was a pretty solid kid and Mum would describe me as a “block on a block”. I was constantly stating, ‘IT’S NOT FAIR’ (which to this day Mum says will be inscribed on my epitaph) and would relish telling her every detail for that day when I wasn’t in her company. I usually spoke in long sentences without taking a breath to ensure everything that needed to be said was said.
Something as innocent as ‘How was your day then?’ was usually backed up with my mother wincing as she braced herself for an onslaught…
‘Well…going up the Crinnicks Hill I caught up with Sarah who wasn’t wearing a balaclava even though you said that everyone was and it would keep me warm but Sarah said her head was warm anyway and she had a pretty pink hat on with a teddy on the side and then we met up with Robert and Sharon and they didn’t have balaclavas either and when they were walking behind me, I know they were making fun of me but it didn’t matter because I know I can run faster than them and anyway Robert forgot his plimsolls and it was too late for him to go back and I said to Miss that I was red because I was hot and that I was probably the hottest one because no one else had to wear a balaclava – except my brother Bruce but he was in the bigger school so no one saw him and he doesn’t like having to walk with me anyway and what’s for tea?’
There was no point in trying to get away because I simply followed my victims around. Mum would often prepare a three-course meal while I gabbled on, often handing me things to hold like wool knowing I would stay still long enough to finish a school pullover or balaclava without a hole in the front. Or back.
On the first day at infants’ school, I can remember children crying as their mothers/fathers “abandoned” them to their fate. Lots of gnashing of teeth, clutching of legs and pleading from the parents, but once they’d gone, things settled down and the routine seemed to be the removal of outer coats and shoes, putting on of overalls and plimsolls and going to the lavatory.
I couldn’t understand why my classmates were crying; I figured if I helped them get organised, they’d be distracted enough to shut up. The class teacher couldn’t believe her eyes as I organised children according to greater urgency of needing to pee and height order if all else failed. They all queued as I bundled them into the next available cubicle. On the odd occasion, I went in too, but only if the child didn’t understand the concept of what they were there for or what to do. I didn’t ask the teacher if I could help, I merely took it upon myself to get my classmates organised and ready for a bit of colouring in (or whatever we were meant to be doing there).
You can pity the poor souls that didn’t want to go to the lavatory, and those so scared of me by the time they got to the front of the queue they couldn’t pee for the life of them. But pee they did, and once we had all reassembled in the classroom, a highly amused Mrs Green asked me if all was going well.
‘No,’ I said in a humpy tone.
‘Whatever is the matter, Fiona?’
‘The toilet paper was too hard.’
I had never experienced something to wipe bums with that didn’t absorb. What was the point? Newspaper would have been less messy and more porous and you had the benefit of having something to read while you waited.
Apparently, you can still buy this dreadful stuff and the guise they have to lure purchases is that it is “medicated”.
I’m not convinced this is the same as “prevents cancer” but it ought to have something extremely special going for it to motivate sales.
Mum taught my brother and I to be polite and thoughtful, think of others before ourselves and share.
Share? SHARE?!
The concept of sharing to a small angry red child – or anyone under seven years old is an enigma. Equally, understanding anything that may not go your way is hard to grasp when you have been the centre of attention and the universe since birth. I recall being completely baffled when Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were celebrated.
‘When is it going to be children’s day?’ I enquired eagerly.
What I was actually thinking was, when is it going to be Fiona’s Day , but that seemed even in my head a little too unlikely especially as there was only one other Fiona in Cornwall.
Well, certainly in Bodmin.
This Fiona was a bit of a bully. She was sturdier and a little older than me, and despite her parents’ best efforts, she was slightly intimidating because no one really challenged her. She was an only child (so no sharing for her then) and was spoilt rotten. I was the perfect dupe and she would call for me being Miss Sweetness and Light and then tease me and snatch whatever I was playing with. Our mothers would witness this bullying from various windows in their respective houses but never interfered.
I was a late developer. Or as my father preferred, too idle to speak and walk. All I did was grunt demands and things would get done for me without lifting a finger. At two and a half years old, Mum took me to our doctor to check that nothing was actually wrong.
‘Mrs Ritchie, your daughter has Sluggish Cognitive Tempo