Film school

The crane camera hovers over badlands Wallasey,
an establishing shot: opening credits of Corrie
pebbledashed with pushbiker scallies changing
course like phone doodles, etch-a-sketch angles.

Jump cut to the bathroom of my late Gran's house
and some key grips on detail. The house-doctor
yellow re-papered to former inglories. The bath mat,
courtesy of Butlins. A toothbrush for every occasion.

Tracking shot. Pan and tilt to follow the boy do
whatever. (He's perfect. What stage school?)
Medium close-up. The boy looks intrigued. Close
up to what he sees: a daddy long legs on the ledge.

Hold that as the toothpaste tube shakes into shot.
The blob. Fingers ushering the victim, who goes
on a random flight of fancy. Back again. Mocking.
Extreme C.U. the eyes, E-number dilated, frustrated.

We edited out the deluge of Aquafresh, went straight
to the hand-held, backtracking from his back. Sound
did a great echo job on that thwack thwack thwack
of wooden hairbrush on ceramic. Cold. Arctic. Sick.

The alternative ending in the can, I enjoyed filming most.
Where the fingers cradle the beast. Open the window.
Set free. Smear away the hybrid colour of three
protective stripes: red, white and blue. Switch to optical

point of view (first person), notice the cinematography
switch from Godfather-dark to Wizard-of-Oz. You are
bounding down the stairs to drink soda stream cola on
the sofa. You can get on with your life. Turned a corner.