Tigers in the Herefordshire Countryside
It’s my birthday today.
37 years and 9 months ago my parents decided they really liked each other. I mean, they’d been together for over 10 years. But you know. They REALLY LIKED EACH OTHER that day.
According to Mum, she wasn’t overly sold on the babies idea. According to Dad it was him that needed convincing.
They were living in a caravan at the time, in the garden of a dilapidated house that my Dad had promised to make liveable by the time I was born. ‘Liveable’ is subjective. I remember climbing up a ladder to get upstairs, peeking my head through a trapdoor in the bathroom. I assumed that’s how everyone climbed stairs.
One of my earliest memories is exploring the illusive ‘side of the house’. Bramble thickets contain secrets. I would find the magic I was so desperately seeking. A faerie underworld. Narnia. But as I climbed in, all I found was a newt with a bright yellow belly. It shook it’s tail at me and slithered off. That’s as close as I got to adventure that day.
When I was a child I had a reoccurring nightmare about a sabre tooth tiger. Every night the tiger would chase me down. My futile attempts at hiding never worked. Tigers have an impeccable sense of smell. It would slash through cupboards and beds and I’d wake up screaming every night, just before razor teeth pierced my skin. I was so scared to go back to sleep in case it came back which it always did, so I’d tiptoe into my parents room. They weren’t keen on being woken up every night so they started locking the door. Not giving up I’d drag my duvet, pillows and stuffed toys into the hallway and camp outside their room.
My brother decided he was going to sleep in a tiny cupboard under the stairs, like a voluntary Harry Potter, but that’s another story.
I grew up in a little ‘hamlet’ called Norton Canon. In the middle of nowhere, in English terms. There weren’t many other kids around so me and my brother would entertain ourselves with fun games like pushing each other off swings and hitting each other with sticks until someone got seriously hurt.
Every day I’d walk home from the school-stop and make a choice. The long way, on the road. Or the quick way through the fields. Of course I always ran the ‘gauntlet’.
Level one was a herd of cows. The thing about cows is, if you run, they chase you. If you stop they stop, but its hard to remember this when you’re tiny and they’re huge. I’d run for my life, imagining myself getting trampled to death.
Level two, brambles and bees. I had to jump over a ‘style’ with a wasp nest on one side and thorns on the other. It was get stung or shredded, you couldn’t avoid both.
Level 3 - the next field was empty, but sometimes an angry farmer would come out and threaten to set his dogs on me.
The final boss stage was an electric fence followed by the thickest, stinkiest mud in Herefordshire.
When I finally arrived home I’d throw myself through the door proclaiming ‘I’M STARVING’. I’d never spend my lunch money on something as boring as food. I’d save the pound coins and buy posters of pop-stars I was ‘in love with’, make-up and eventually cigarettes and cheap cider.
You could say I had an ‘idyllic’ childhood. Stable, loving, non-judgemental, parents who value freedom, equality and truth and stand up for any kind of injustice.
I soon found out not everyone is like that. I had a pretty horrendous time at school. Most girls hated me. I was teased for everything, from my name to my second hand clothes, to my parents lime green ‘hippy car’, to my quiet-ness. I was teased for knowing the answers on the tests, for putting my hand up. For getting it right. And for some reason I really cared. I desperately wanted to fit in. I longed for the ‘normal’ life, the house in suburbia with fitted carpets. The white shop-bought bread that tasted like clouds. The TV shows and the barbie dolls.
At 14 I had the first and only physical fight of my life, punching one of my tormentors in the face, ripping out her hair and banging her head into the linoleum floor until the teachers pulled me off. Everyone left me alone after that. I started to rebel. My skirt got shorter, my heels got higher. I got my tongue pierced. Followed by everything else. Now the other kids weren’t a problem but the teachers hated me. I’d get into endless fights with them all. Every morning they’d ban me from class until I’d taken all my piercings out and washed off my goth make up. I never understood why my appearance mattered if the purpose was to take in information and pass tests.
Then I discovered boys and I grew up real fast. My first serious boyfriend was 10 years older than me. We bought a house together. That’s another story, one I’ve told many times.
I went from tree loving Clare to mean girl with a goth twist before being hurled into domestic hell, before finally getting the hell out of there and travelling the world.
With every year that passes I’m becoming more child-like. Back to my original self. I actually feel like I’m getting younger. Not much has changed. I still prefer the company of trees to people, I still don’t like dogs (I know!) and I’m still obsessed with honey on toast.
I love my birthday so much. I absolutely LOVE being the centre of attention. I love being showered with gifts, compliments and adoration. I’m shocked when people tell me they don’t like this! Some people even keep their birthday a secret! I tell people months in advance. This year I levelled up and asked my friends to throw me a surprise party. This is one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. You don’t have to organise anything! The party is tonight, I THINK, because obviously ITS A SURPRISE!
In all seriousness - THANK YOU for all the love. Today and every day. I really am so grateful for all of you. Thanks for reading my ramblings, for showing up on the mat, laughing at my stupid jokes in class (butt-torches to the skyyyy), practicing getting on and off the floor without using your hands, not wearing shoes & accepting me just as I am. In true Pisces fashion, I made this playlist for you.