Book Of The Month

The title of the book in English is "The Extraordinary Journey Of The Fakir Who Got Trapped In An IKEA Wardrobe".  The original version was in French but I shall attempt the German.  My friend at work recommended it me, and I trust her.

I spent 4 hours filling in half of the questionnaire I was given.  Holy Moly, that takes an emotional toll.  Remembering all of the very unpleasant memories of my father.  I think it's fair to say he was not a nice man.

However I shall not tell you any of the bad stories.  I shall tell you a better story.

I was a mild mannered kid.  Good at school, just tried to avoid the bullies - mostly successfully apart from three months sat next to GM.  Shudder.
My dad decided that I needed "toughening up".  And so he bought me a pair of boxing gloves.

He was a big man.  As tall as I am now but really muscly.  My muscles were like knots in threads in comparison.  I was nine or so.

He decided we were going to have "lessons" at home in the living room with my mum and sister as spectators.  He would kneel and then we were roughly the same height.  His reach was much longer than mine though.  He taught me how to stand and how to hold my hands and how to throw the various types of punches.

All well and good.  And then it was time to spar with him.  He wouldn't punch me, he said, he'd just slap me.  Terrific, i thought, so this is just me getting slapped around for doing nothing at all.  The only difference to any other day is I'm wearing boxing gloves and am being encoouraged to hit back.

And so he started slapping.  Huge, hard hands on the end of really long and strong arms.  I really didn't stand a chance. Slap, slap, slap - they really hurt as well. I was getting very fed up with being slapped.  He wasn't going to stop though until I started crying and I was in no mood to let him mock his "crybaby".

I drew back my left hand and dropped to around waist height and I made out that I was going to aim a punch at his stomach.  My right hand was ready.  And he dropped his guard to protect against my left.

Bingo!  And with all the strength I could muster I  launched my right hand straight at his nose. Whack! He rocked back a bit and then we noticed that his nose was gushing blood.  I was overjoyed and  simultaneously terrified that I would be on the wrong end of much more serious beating.

You could have heard a pin drop, even on the tartan carpet we had.

And for the only time in my life he said "Well done".

There were no more boxing lessons.

I have never thrown a punch since. And I won't ever.