He sat to write - chapter 2

Chapter 2

I have just braved the coldest of Norfolk winds on my way back from a seminar on campus and my journey, as well as freezing every extremity of my face also took twice as long as usual. This is for two very good reasons, firstly because whilst walking away from the campus a large man on a bicycle decided to pay absolutely no attention to where his metal death trap on wheels was travelling and so travelled directly in to my path of travel. Bravely I jumped on to the muddy concourse beside the footpath upon which my feet had been, as the man cycled on by without so much of a flicker of recognition for his reckless behaviour, but stoically I continued on my treacherous journey. Oh if only I had known the tragedy which was to befall my eyes upon turning the next corner. Ahead of me on the path was a familiar figure, his lopsided walk, those beige trousers matched with those white running trainers. It could only be the American comic fanatic who lived down the hall from me. He walked alongside a companion, and fearing some inclusion in their comic fuelled chatter (this has happened before) I slowed my walking pace considerably. However their walking pace was already what I would describe as equal to a sloth and so I was practically standing still, unfortunately it is at this point that I realise my unfortunate positioning, right next to a field of freshly laid manure. I think that my American flat person, (I refuse here to write mate as it would be fantastically incorrect) walks at such a slow pace due to this strange ailment he seems to have of walking at the angle of the tower of Pisa. Eventually I spot my opportunity, the American stops to talk to another friend, at this point I am inclined to wander how it is that he has two friends, however time dictates that I do not have enough of it to wander about such an incredible fact. As he stops my pace now picks up to as close to a run as I can get whilst still keeping my head down so as not to be recognised. I am over what is surely the final hurdle of this altogether terrifying ordeal, but then I see the traffic lights and my heart sinks so low that I can almost feel it beating in the heel of my foot. However this added adrenaline allows me to negotiate the traffic lights with distinct ease crossing as soon as I see the amber light flash up, then it was not long until I was back in my cell, as John, my stepfather, fondly refers to it, and that is where I now write to you from.

I feel that this is the point to introduce you properly to my father; a fairly important figure in my life both in his presence and his absence, the latter is something I know more about. I will paint you a picture of my father at what I will describe as his time of great embarrassment, not that this isn’t pretty much all of the time, but after a holiday it is at its most prevalent. Here then stands a Polish man in his early fifties, a dark tan, short black hair with blonde highlights at the tips, a loop earring in his left ear, three quarter length trousers with pockets making up around eighty percent of the visible trouser, flip flops revealing his small hairy feet, a salmon pink T-shirt covering his mildly oversized belly. He has a girlfriend who he has been with ‘officially’ for around 12 years now, her name is Chrissie and I find her possibly the most despicable person I have ever met. Her stupidity is beyond belief and on top of this she is not at all nice, her personality is much like her appearance I suppose. Her leathery, dried out, wrinkled skin stretched across her skull, her hair blond with badly executed purple streaks running through the low hanging fringe (low hanging, presumably to cover her exceedingly ugly face), she is skin and bones with wide shoulders causing her to look somewhat manly, something not helped by the wasp bites which could at a push be called breasts. I am thankful to her because she is the only person awful enough to accommodate my father, who for all his creative ‘genius’ in the field of medical advertising and his wacky outgoing persona is actually somewhat mad and hideously alcoholic, purchasing at least one bottle of wine a day, and they are not to be kept in his wine rack, as he does not have one. My father used to smoke like a chimney, however he has now quit for something like two years, this followed Chrissie quitting drink after having been drunk and threatening to kill her only daughter Ellie (a fat, ugly girl who is about 4 days younger than I). So now Chrissie smokes more than ever, whilst my father, his name Feliks by the way, now drinks more than ever, a sad if not hilarious situation. Legend has it that on the day when the witch moved from her hometown of Manchester to live with the ugly troll she left her very own ugly troll daughter at the school gates and left no note, a woman with considerable problems. However this situation is perhaps preferable to having your father live in your house whilst he and your mother are no longer together, he refuses to move as he feels the house is his and so lives in the spare room upstairs. Ridiculous and annoying for all involved.

It would appear that my father, Feliks Anatol Schramm, inherited much from his father, my other grandfather, whom I never met, the reason I am led to this belief is due to the fact that my grandfather was apparently schizophrenic believing himself to be Jesus Christ at some points of his life. He spent some time in a mental institution, but remarkably he and my grandmother are one story that does not end in divorce. It is said that my grandfather had a hole in his back from being shot that one could insert their finger into, if one had such a desire, however I am not sure how much I believe this. By the time my mother met my grandparents on my fathers side, she explains, my grandfather hardly talked and his children, my father, my aunt and uncle, appeared to dislike him immensely whilst my grandmother apparently loved him unwaveringly and fully and she apparently was a truly lovely woman. Both my grandparents on this side died in the same year, when my father was just twenty three, my grandmother hung on just long enough to see my parents marry, although she did apparently warn my mother of Feliks’s awful temper before the marriage. Mother should probably have listened but love is apparently deaf as well as blind, although I think more deaf than blind, because people do not fall in love with someone if they find them utterly repulsive to look at, I would imagine that is a far more basic animal instinct than caring what they say or do?

I did meet my great grandmother on my fathers side, a quite incredibly small woman, under five foot by the time I knew her, although by the time I remember her she was around ninety nine years old, eventually living until the age of one hundred and two. It is believed that she lived until this grand old age as she waited for her husband, who it is believed, was killed clearing mines in the war, although it was never proved and so she waited. I remember she got a card from the queen, which was quite special.

My fathers sister, my Aunt, Zofia Walters, resides in Florida, America, having fallen for a tall black American man named Bob and moved out there at the age of somewhere in her late twenties. She has a daughter named Dominique and currently remains married to Bob. In appearance she is very similar to my own sister, standing at just above five foot, fairly stocky with short blond hair, a powerful looking woman, something, which is soon undermined by her whimsical character. We used to visit them every Christmas for around three or four years, once we went whilst my father was still with my mother, I was around four and cut my lip open on a round edged building block for children, a cut which did not stop bleeding, causing uncle Bob, a police man, to place his siren on top of his car and rush me to hospital, very exciting. It was Christmas Eve and I was placed in a sort of cocoon so that they could stitch my lip back together (after having sorted out the insurance, of course), I hated this and instead of the stupid thing stopping me from wriggling it made matters worse. Thankfully a very skilled plastic surgeon happened to be on call at the time and so my lip hardly shows even the slightest sign of a scar. After that we visited for a few more Christmas’s this time without my father.

My father also has a brother by the name of Jan (pronounced yan), he lives in Basingstoke, I am not quite sure if he is divorced but he lives next door to his wife who was recently in an episode of Come Dine With Me on Channel four. This is a fact of much amusement to me. This Christmas Eve we went to celebrate Vigilia (Polish Christmas) at my uncles house and spent much of the time switching between the two houses. He is a frail funny man who teaches drama, I quite like him but he has no backbone at all. Literally! Well no, not literally that would be quite astonishing.