We took to sneaking looks into the boys changing room after sports. It smelt of sweat and old trainers. It hummed with chat and laughter to the timing of dirty jokes. He was good at sport. That impressed Sasha who was so rubbish at it she used to pay me to come last in races.
He was muscular and tanned and what with the blonde hair he certainly got Sasha excited. It was the time of the band Bros, that look was what girls were supposed to desire. Sasha was a big Bros fan. She was going to marry one of them she told me.
Sasha was a plumb talkative girl with mouse blonde hair and big breasts that I greatly envied. A couple of years later I would date an evil bastard of the muscular blonde type, not because I liked him or even fancied him, but just to make Sasha jealous.
However, I was NOT into Bros. For me it was Micheal Jackson ever since me and my brother snuck out of bed to watch an illegal copy of Thriller my Dad’s dodgy friend brought round. Its an even more thrilling (sorry) video when its illegal and you’re supposed to be in bed.
More recently Sasha had shown me her copy of the Labyrinth and we were both madly in love with David Bowie (every word of every song he’s ever written is written for me! Not that I listen to his songs anymore).
I’ve always liked the mysterious and unknown. ‘Bed time stories that keep the curtains closed’, and way back then it seems I was also in to skinny, slightly effeminate, men in tight trousers.
Excitement, thats what we needed. We were bored teenage girls living in a South London suburb as the 80’s turned into the 90’s. Stalking was a means of having fun. We also held seances in graveyards.
Soon sneaking looks through into the boy’s changing room just wasn’t enough. We pinched one of his exercise books. It was disappointing. All he’d done was write his name in blunt pencil. No that wasn’t enough to satisfy our needs. We wanted detail. We wanted dirt!
Today has been a bad head day, and my brain is now all over the place making connexions where their are no connexions. The temptation on these days is to talk about it. I try to avoid having much to do with people on these days, try to stay in and out of trouble, but sometimes the connexions seem so important its difficult. I just must make contact with…
Today I did some gardening and the plants knew me. Their electric greens and blues crawled inside me. They had a beat to them like a heart. They knew I couldn’t separate myself. I was weak and they were everything. My head clings on to hundreds of half remembered stories, something very very important, but what?
So maybe now is a good time to end the Derek Story, for Derek is very real in many ways and he knows me as the plants did today. I dream of sharing that with another human, but so far, although I have imagined friends have understood, Derek is the only one who I can be sure really knows.
Have you ever been convinced of something even though you know it will sound like madness to others? Have you ever tried to cling on to your sanity whilst doing some serious tango with the alternative? Knowing for certain that there is something there that is vital to you? People ask me about Derek when they hear the song or the poem, they ask me what he symbolizes. He symbolises nothing. He is Derek. And I have a cunning plan for if he should ever venture down from the loft.
I’ll sit him in front of the TV and feed him on oranges and custard creams, on semilena pudding and rice crispies, on cucumbers and baked beans and mashed potatoes and monster munch and ice cream and apple pie and yogurt and more yogurt and more custard and cheese. I’ll feed him up till he is big and fat and huge. I’ll feed him until he is enormous! Then I’ll squeeze him into the tiny gap underneath my bed, so I can hear him SQUEAL whenever I go to bed at night.