Under sufferance

When I was a child I was tormented by one Acacious Raat. The said tormentor would by my partner in crime yet the bane of my existence. On one particularly memorable evening ( I was about 6 I believe), we hid behind a the thick confines of some serviable curtains and he proceeded to shear the locks from my innocent head while I giggled insanely. The mother Raat found us there and suitably scolded Acacious but I believe that he must have lain a curse upon my youthful self for a lock of hair that he stole from my head has never grown back and there remains a curl that sprouts defiant from the centre of my forhead.

Amongst the adventures that myself and Acacious used to amuse ourselves with (trips to China, camping in dark places and conversations with 'spirits' (not to mention my inevitable introduction to my main addiction)) he used to torment me with fruit. I have never been a healthy girl; it has gone down in the family tomes that I was reared on a healthy diet of guinness with a dash of whiskey and have always had an aversion to anything that has seeds on the inside. Damn you peppers for tricking me into believing that you are vegtables!!!! Acacious Raat would grasp the offending fruit (fruit, fruit, I am loath to write the word... how much more pleasant to write Benson and Hedges and Blackbush) and chase me to my hiding hole where the scene of the aforesaid crime took place. He would rub a myriad of tree growing filth in my face and laugh at my as I would cry for the mother raat to save me from his tauntings. Little me, curled up in a ball behind emerald curtains, tears streaming and roughly cut hair trembling at the absolute outrage of the situation.

Acacious Raat now lives on a far off moutain, frolicing with Kiwis and throwing himself down mountains (it is whispered that one day he shall finally complete his metamophosis). Sometimes I think of our many adventures and always when I see f&^*t I shudder. Never will it pass my lips! Filth!!!!!

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