Ch-ch-changing

ONCE I ran away from my foster home, was caught by the police, locked in their van, escorted to hospital, injected with a needle and held down by nurses until I was drugged out.

That’s my worst memory. I’m proud that I can write it down in one sentence.

There was a man who made the decision to treat me like this. Col was the office manager of the Department of Communities.

I think he felt guilty about what he did. Because once he passed on a light hearted remark to my foster mother. “Still can’t get the farmers friends out of my socks”, referring to the time he chased me through a forest to negotiate with me. Farmers friends are black thin seeds that attach themselves to clothing.

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Col resigns from his job. I say “resign” but I’m not entirely sure. He is replaced by a man named Tony – someone I intended to introduce in another blog post.

About a year later my foster mother Hazel and I are on our weekly shopping trip and we’re walking the main street. We’re at that part where I’ve spent my money on Pokemon cards and resorting to window shopping. And then we see Col walking to us.

I stand there, coldly. He says hello, talks about the weather, asks us what we’re doing, how I’m enjoying my holidays, and so on. He leaves.

Good.

Later Hazel said he had been impressed with my “change”.

“He was amazed you just stood there. He was expecting you to attack him or at least stomp on his shoe,” she said.

 

 

 

 

 

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