Tabula Rasa - Chapter 1

1.1

And so you open your eyes and you see. Faces surround from above; a panorama of smiles, laughs, all worthy of photographs. ‘Coochie-Coo!’ one announces in a child-directed-helium-inflated voice. What did that mean anyway? I suppose that’ll be one of the mysteries of mankind. Though, you see, in a truly goldfish-like fashion, I will forget that any of this ever happened. They say you never remember the first years of your life. Earliest memories occur around the age of two, three, four even – but that being the latest. I will forget the array of manic-depressant desperation written onto each person’s face. The cheek pulling that they think I love, because I present them with a smile formed by escaping wind after the last meal of milk from mother’s breast. Of course it’s typical that they would think this pleased me, after all they had forgotten their earliest memories too. Forgotten the nagging; the high pitched voices; the Coochie-Coo gatherings; the occasional swearing at the child as they wouldn’t know what it meant.2

Maybe they also forgot the utter helplessness and dependency of these early years. These were the days, get everything given to you, and all you have to do is cry. Course, it’s up to interpretation as to what you actually want, but any attention is good attention. I guess the down side though, is the inability to help yourself; just lie there in a pram or cot or high-chair wishing for milk, a change of nappy from the wet patch of ‘wee-wee’ or ‘poo-poo’ left from your pre-potty training years, or maybe even a little bath.3

The waiting is the worst part, wondering if mummy or daddy have forgotten you completely, but they come in time, lift you up, smile at you, self actualise themselves in the treasured time with their prodigy. You receive the occasional pat on the back, burp a little, and although daddy doesn’t know it yet, he’s made a mistake. Babies vomit is oddly projectile at times. Daddy’s face changes from a smile to a frown and I think: ‘‘what’s up daddy? You don’t like the fact I’ve vomited on your new £40 brand logo shirt with appealing design of blue and black in a blended pattern?’’ ‘‘Why no’’ I imagine him to say, but instead he merely says ‘‘Come on, we’d better get you cleaned up then’’ - he could tolerate a lot.4

They buy you a whole entourage of treasured gifts: a mobile (one of those pretty twirly things, not a phone), a baby monitor, a ‘Winnie the Pooh TM: Tigger and Pooh light up for you TM’ night light system, featuring a whole spectrum of colours and soft playing music. I suppose buying things showed they cared, but then it almost felt that it was to avoid contact with you; after all we are such a hassle. The dummy personified this line of thought, that little, though seemingly huge at the time, plastic dummy in its irreverent nature; a nightmare to your early childhood. Its prerogative: oral stimulation of baby. Baby’s prerogative: oral lactation, oral lactation now, what is this thing? Get it off, get it off. Though still you suck; almost addictively on a mere piece of plastic.5

According to many child psychologists this stage of development is called the oral stage, where human development occurs by learning things via the mouth. You’d sometimes stretch your toes and your leg so far that you could place your big toe in your mouth. This is mostly possible because the bones in your body are still quite soft at this moment and as such more flexible. I was never quite sure what the whole purpose of this was, but it seemed to feel like some kind of real achievement.6

Their faces still stare down at you. They tell you ‘‘you’re cute’’; how sweet you are; how innocent, and more and more adjectives of cherry sweet perfection; making contact with your ears. It’s nice to be appreciated, though at this stage there is really nothing you yourself can do to be appreciated for. Maybe it is that complete and utter dependence that someone relies on you, and so in essence it’s more about how someone makes you feel about yourself, then how you feel for someone else. I guess we could all relate to that.7

The adult faces clearly have other things on their minds, but I think I serve as a reminder of sweetness, or again innocence, or at least a distraction from some of the less desirable aspects of their lives. Take Jim for example. Jim’s partner had just left him, a two year relationship; the marks of dried up tears still presented themselves on his work shirt. You could see the deep red mess of his eyes; he always got that way after crying, but somehow, inexplicably he’d still find time to ‘coochie-coo’; shove a rattle in my face; attempt to make me laugh. I’d cry when I saw his face and he’d probably shed a little tear inside after my dissatisfaction with his poor stand-up comedy routine of all 5 seconds. To try and cheer me up, he’d attempt to talk in some strangely bizarre and mutated form of the English language. In this he would replace any word beginning consonant with a ‘w’; joining the ranks of such speech impeded celebrities and fictitious cartoon characters as Jonathon Ross and Elmer Fudd. Yes he was a desperate case; poor old Jim.8

Although he was usually friendly and easy to get along with, he would generally act uptight or anal retentive; kept to himself; stayed away. His overly sensitive side and soft centre often had its drawbacks. Lacking the competitive nature required for his line of work, he frequently fell short of his assertive contemporaries. Of the more modest variety, he merely sat back and watched ego-charged-career-obsessed-promotion-pushers take higher and higher salaries. He meanwhile passed into the backdrop; his nervous and timid corner, never in the light of job promotion. On a painting he would be the nail at the back; never seen and obscured by the presentation at the front, while seemingly holding the whole thing together. 9

Now the latter part of this analogy refers to his surprising ability in performing the tasks of his job. The ill-recognition resulted from his team leader ignoring his quite impeccable service record, instead replacing his esteemed top spot with one of the aforementioned careerists. He never seemed to mind though. Maybe that wasn’t part of his ambition, but it was curious to think he would want to stay in his current monotonous position. For now that maniacal face still stared down on me. Drawn again to his eyes, the dark creases of ringed shadows marked his face. Too many late nights, nights spent worrying about something or other; eating away at his eyes. There was something deeply sad about his face, and you couldn’t help thinking that he deserved something better.10

Of course I had other things to worry about: my next portion of milk, my increasingly stinking nappies, when I get my next nap. It’s all so simple when your needs are so simple, no one else matters when you are your own universe; each a little bubble of personified self-desire. I couldn’t care less about Mr. Melrove’s debt repayment or Mrs. Doulton’s Mortgage; all discussing APR rates, endowment policies and various other subject specific lexis. Then as for the Medical side: about Mr. Culridge’s Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, Mr. Salvine’s placebo prescriptions for his hyperactive hypochondria, or the eccentricity of Ms. Wadkins gym addict, healthy living lifestyle, symptomatic of the work place. Ms. Wadkins was the type to drill her ideals into you; always giving tips on how to stay healthy. If the adverts didn’t tell you often enough, you’d be likely to get it off her. Ms. Wadkins’ game of Simon says would go as follows: Simon says ‘‘go to the gym’’. Simon says ‘‘eat five different types of fruit a day as part of a healthy, balanced and nutritional lifestyle’’. Simon says ‘‘become obsessed with loosing weight and join Weight Watchers’’. ‘‘Go down the pub and enjoy yourself’’. No, Simon wouldn’t say that.11

I especially hated it when Ms. Wadkins would come in for her run of coochie-coo’s and dissembled gibberish formed by randomly placed vowels and consonants. She would perform it with such perspiring ambition, as though it was a mission to be carried out and accomplished with 100% success. Nothing was natural in her meetings with me, her movements timed to a metronome only her and her alone could hear. She wasn’t made for caring or loving, she was built for cheerleading. Those well choreographed frantic dances; perfectly timed and synchronised. Seeing her yelling out the name of the football team, the rugby team, the basketball team, waving those pompoms in the air to seemingly guide in planes to come and land on the pitch. She probably never made the team, and as a result allowed the loss to become a force feedback loop into every aspect of her life. It allowed her to achieve her current well suited position as advertising consultant; she could shout about the company all she wanted. The perfect little trooper, she made the team here.12

I take a sigh of relief as she lifts her head away and returns to her cubical; the most organised and tidy of the block. No more faces decide to take a peek so I simply stare at the white squares that form the ceiling. The room seems so bright; a cold and clear white light. It’s sterile and sober, not an ounce of creativity shown, painted in shades of grey and white; the Dulux dog would be proud. Personality doesn’t go very far when function governs the prerogative. This is a place for working; for phoning any homes in the telephone book, asking: 13

‘‘Sir, would you be interested in…’’,14

‘‘Madam how is your such and such’’ and announcing:15

‘’Special offer’’,16

‘‘Free this’’,17

‘’Free that’’. 18

99% of responses bear a pejorative verdict; slamming the phone down on sales calls became an ever increasing eventuality. The callers would soon see why, when they themselves would return home and intercept their very own barrage of unwanted phone spamming. Various sales techniques are used, for instance it is judged, passed and sentenced that the receiver by some strange autonomy, automatically wants that brand new mobile phone with free Bluetooth hands-free headset, 1 month of free text messages and an inbuilt 128mb MP3 player. The ‘free’ phone is on its way to you in 6-7 days. They have your address, they have your home phone, they probably know where you work and when you work, what schools you attended and what car you drive. So much for confidentiality.19

This particular company did a good job at harassing people for unwanted items. Corporations would come to them to sell their products; in turn the company rings many households. Whoever answers first gets put through and here they offer you the world. In the unlikely eventuality that they get a sale, the rewards from the larger corporations would be plentiful to the company, due to the lack of success in these fields. Of course these larger corporations would always set quotas and the accompanying monetary rates would apply to quotas met. The company had its good seasons and its bad ones, but if you saturate the market enough, that 1% of respondents could pay off.20

Lunch hour had now finished and the gang at the coochie-coo gathering had slithered away back to their desks. Suddenly you feel movement, as the wheels of the pram submit to their daily monotony of kinetic energy. I sometimes enjoy the ride, me at the helm, mother sat in tow (though not sitting of course), almost making commands and bellowing out orders as an army general. Plant pots to the left of us, plant pots to the right of us, into the corridor of desks we rode.21

We make it to the elevator; the seemingly steel doors open wide and mother wheels me into the cuboid lift. The latest hit from the Muzak Corporation begins to play and suffices as completely unnecessary background music. Sharp little monotone signals play out a little bland tinny sounding piece from a genre relegated to the few seconds between storeys, being put on hold, and the tedium of the easy listening sounds of cheap shops. The ‘dee-dee-dee’ to signal the end of the song comes as a relief, and just after the ding of the elevator makes its presence known to the opening of the lift doors, the wheels move once again as mother rushes in vexation to avoid another lift music anthem.22

Now just one final corridor, the one I know well and true. Those bright and friendly double doors set that old realisation. Enter the crèche.23

The crèche, to be precise, is more of a crèche/playschool hybrid. As a result there are not only babies, but toddlers here as well, due to the parental attachments by some of the more particular parents, not to mention this making the daily routine significantly easier. These ‘older’ kids were the kind that would, if they were your older sibling, resent the fact of your existence as a baby for taking away the precious attention they previously were the sole benefactor of. This sort of jealousy would of course fade away in due time and maturity, or at least the overt forms of it; deciding for lesser, more guerrilla tactics. Gone would be the outright crying and miserable faces. In its place: framing and passing of blame, more positive attributions to attain the much needed pat on the head from mummy or daddy, and maybe the odd job here or there. How could a baby compare to that?24

Babies get their brownie points for being cute. No discernable abilities, unless you count the ability to place your big toe in your mouth as one. As I said before, it served no purpose. That ability always seemed to feature heavily on those nappy adverts though, to a resounding orchestral backdrop. The need to usurp and glorify such a meaningless act confused me, but maybe it is the fact that this ability is limited to those younger years. It’s hard to feel any sort of nostalgia for a time in your life which you forget entirely though. 25

Lost in the thoughts of the juxtapositions of sibling rivalry and useless abilities, I almost forget where I am. Ah the crèche/playschool hybrid. This is that place where minimum wage uniformed girls and middle aged women take care of the higher paid middle class workers children. This is the place of recited mantras and predictable ‘believe in yourself’ choruses. This is that place of pre-school teaching of that magical world known as letter land, with its residents of Kicking King and Hairy Hat Man. I’d probably soon be telling my parents of this fantasy land, as they wonder in amazement, half thinking I’ve gone mad. Scratching their heads, they would still be wondering until eventually they go to teacher/parent conferences (as it’s officially known, ‘parents evening’ to everyone else) and query all the teachers in sight, and then in a sudden epiphany comes the realisation of that magical place: letter land.26

Imagination and fantasy always seemed like a child dominated realm. Not to say these abilities fade away in the later years, but it certainly becomes more contained. Established reality is not so definite for a child, and their minds can conjure up a thousand games or fantasies to play out on the streets they live. You maybe wonder why in teenage years, youths no longer play outside or invent fantasy lands for themselves, rather than those created by various media. The imagination begins to accept the physical environment it is placed in; activities thus focus on more material matters, and so this continues into adulthood. They become so controlled, so contained, almost as though there is a real loss here, a loss of adventure. I suppose it’s all for the best. We can’t all be children for the whole of our lives. The world simply couldn’t function with a population of Peter Pan’s.27

The children recite ‘‘A, B, C, D’’ and so on until all the 26 letters are expelled from their voice boxes. Sometimes the toddlers would add little summarising sentences to the end of the recital. The old, almost proverbial ‘‘Now I know my ABC’s next time will you sing with me’’ was always a handy tagline.28

You see the stressed desperation flush away from the faces of the crèche workers as they get their coffee breaks. Go off to the green room for the hourly caffeine fix. Black coffee: no milk, plenty of sugar. Spoonful’s of the stuff from bags that tell you to ‘‘lighten up’’. Of course bags of sugar don’t actually speak to you, this is that clever little pun or play on words the guy at the planning meeting came up with for product design; a way to show that this particular brand of sugar was healthy for you. Did ever a larger oxymoron exist? 29

I suppose you couldn’t blame the crèche workers. All the shouting, all the screaming, all the demanding voices using their newly developed communicative skills for commodity acquisition. Of course the children themselves would never grasp this wafty terminology we apply to the simple process of screaming for food, water or toilet facilities. Supply and demand sort of worked the other way around here. Sure enough these children would see the day when they would have to stop off and pay for the blatant extortionism of service station food, but at the here and now they accept the current service; waited upon as royalty. This is a mark of the establishment, one of the esteemed crèches/nurseries with the adorning plaques on the wall from the LEA and Local Authority of Childcare. However privileged we were to be here, we were still a bunch of brats.30

But what of the causes of this minuscule riot? Boy shouted at girl, made her cry. Girl cut boys hand, made him cry. Boy had fight with boy. Girl had fight with girl. Boy had fight with girl, boy told ‘‘You’re not supposed to hit girls’’, girl not told off. So many generic constructions and scenarios of childhood disagreements, simplistic yet almost inherent in our nature, and at such a young age. They wouldn’t know it yet but in life they would bump into hundreds, even thousands of such situations and they could be either the initiator or the victim. It’d be up to them to pick, but whatever their choice, whatever their decision, their actions would become them, and their face would change in meaning, like the flip of a coin; heads or tails.31

That feeling of falling hits, it’s that off the cliff image you get for split second moments as the head drops and rises again. Here at the point of drifting off, as the hypothalamus releases melatonin into the brain, coercing you to sleep. There’s the children’s shouts, and the carers shouts and the general background hum, like vacuum cleaners or washing machines, reintroducing that forgotten comfort zone; the womb. You never actually remember when you finally go to sleep, it can happen at any time in that process of nodding and gasping, it could strike in mid sent...32