The Column

Hello. Welcome to my column. I write this in the spirit of a Fleet Street column. If you don’t know where Fleet Street is, it’s in London. And it’s where all the newspapers used to live. 

What’s a column, you may be thinking. I’ll tell you. It’s an upright cylinder. Or a body of soldiers. It’s also a particular section of a newspaper written by the same person. 

I think I’m the last one. Although I’m quite tall. So I could be the first one. 

I remember being on holiday in Pembrokeshire many years ago. We stayed in a small cottage. Small in the sense that the roof was dangerously near the carpet.. 

There used to be an interesting expression for the process young people went through as they grew. If you started pudgy and small but then grew tall, you “shot up”.

So you’d meet an adult and the conversation would be something like this. 

“Alright, young ‘un. Blimey, you’ve shot up ain’t yer?”

“I haven’t shot anyone. Or fired a gun at the sky!”

“Eh? No, you thicko, I meant you’ve got taller.”

I’d find myself muttering: “Why didn’t you say that then?” 

Anyway, that cottage. We were there during a period where I’d shot up …

Hang on. For clarity, you can’t shoot down. That’d mean you were shrinking. Or maybe you ducked because of a flying object. 

So, a cottage with a low roof and me getting tall. 

CLUNK!!! 

OUCH!!!

That was me getting out of bed. I’d prepare for the day, bend down to tie my laces. 

CLUNK!!! 

OUCH!!!

The cottage had seen a bit of life. It was aged, with plenty of wooden beams. Hence, the frequent clunking. I’d walk downstairs and enter the living room. 

CLUNK!!!

BOLLOCKS!!!

It was rather tiring. I solved the problem by spending the holiday wearing a builders hard hat. And my mother making me put money in a swear jar. 

So yes, I’m writing a column in a manner similar to the columns from years ago. I make no apology for that. I’m in my sixties, so I remember what I did on this day in 1982. But I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. 

You may be thinking I’m not taking it seriously. Excuse me! Yes, I am. Sort of. In my own way. You wouldn’t want me to sound all normal and po-faced, would you? 

That’s an interesting phrase: ‘po-faced’. It originates from 1934. And linguists reckon it’s a reference to the look you’d have on your face, if you were looking at a chamber pot full of crap. 

Right, the column, this one is an indication of what is come. Although I’ve kept it as simple as I can …

Hang on. Arthur, my editor slipped me a note. It says I haven’t made a point yet. 

I’ll handle that now. I like writing a column. It feels like I’m paying homage to the masters that went before me. Crafting columns about ordinary life and its mysteries. 

I'll drink my brew, have a think about the next one, and try not to head-butt the ceiling.