Thursday, August 18, 2005

Freddie

Freddie was a spoilt child, by anyone's standards.

At least that's what people would say.

'Oh Freddie, you're so spoilt, what is it like to have all that attention?'

Freddie didn't quite know how to reply. He was seven years old, and he had no idea what they meant.

Later, when he grew up, he acknowledged that they may have been right. He certainly did get more annoyed and vexed than other people seemed to, when things didn't quite go his way.

Like today in work, when the office erupted in panic as the server stopped connecting and the printer broke down, 'I was the only one who left, they all stayed around and tried to make it work' he thought.

Still, he didn't miss it, all that nonsense of being a child. His mother worrying all the time and his father trying to explain the notion of infinity to him, and him having to nod in agreement, always afraid that he would disappoint.

If anything, he missed the dinners that were served each night, and the fact that his clothes were ready for him every morning.

And he sometimes found himself, late at night, aimlessly flicking through endless television, as though waiting to be told to go to bed.

'I should probably settle down', he thought, 'get a woman and all that shite'. Although the idea of having children of his own filled him with terror.

But he was content enough as long at the TV was good, or the book he was reading was absorbing.

'In fact', he thought, 'I'd never bother buying a book if I was a character in it, I'm far too dull, unless I played a bit part and killed myself'. He smiled.

'So', he thought, as he took another handful of nachos, and changed the channel, 'so what if I'm spoilt, its not like I'm hurting anyone'.

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