How do you start your life's story? What such way is there to present such detailed information yet remain a sense of direction? This is how i intend to start mine. From day 1.
You must be thinking for sure that day 1 would be my day of birth - which for your knowledge is 8th of October 1993 sounds significant? Don't get me wrong, it is. Needn't you worry, yet. This is not your average 'story' but infact a retelling of events, don't assume that this is my life story because soon shall you find out that this is actually the story of my life; I conclude.
Like I said, day one. The most significant of all days for any given time period, like a feeble child on their journey to school on the very first day. They know no other child, naive as themselves, yet are mischevious to take upon this mission with still the curiosity of a bear cub; and just as eager as ever such similar like the opening of the story- well lets face it, you expect to be glued onto the storyline right? but like no other mine starts at my 12th birthday. Not as exciting as you thought, eh?
After finally executing 6 hours of restless sleep, yet awaits my forever awaited 12th birthday, only to pass the next day until yet a mere year away, again. For an eleven year old six hours sleep is enough to fulfil the sheer excitment of forcing yourself to sleep which in theory does not help you sleep, I have foolishly learnt this realising that concentrating on sleep only makes you not sleep more. It's one of those 'tricks of the trades' you wish or even expect your older sibling to tell you; but I would'nt know that, as i do not have any siblings. Lets get back to waking up then?
Ok, so my first few moments of being 12 as you can imagine were dull, but for some reason of all people I felt a glimmer of hope. Whether that was due to my whole year agein and finally earning my 'title' as a year older, or presents well, c'mon well always know the answer to that. Sure it's pretty amazing that you grow all year round, yet only celebrate it on one day, but any amount of presents help you think otherwise right? Wrong.
My 12th birthday was celebrated with my mother Lynette, and father Edward. Then there's me, the 'birthday girl' - like i cared. My first initial steps downstairs created an unusual stutter of whipspering from my parents in the living room, like my thoughts were creeping up on me, ever so carefully, through every step then drawing to a halt as i hit the smooth lino, decending the thirteenth stair.
My parents huddled like vulture's over my (what seemed to be) my birthday present, yet looked like thier live young, that they were protecting from the bitter cold air of Autumn's morning. My distiguishing features turned from plain to a crooked smile as i neared them. "Good morning dear, come and get your cards and presant dear" My fathers tone was unusually plesant as opposed to the breif interval of cursing and negitivity brought back from the studio last night. As an art-deco product designer life is clearly tough and thinks that all three of us should suffer such a tough time he's having, when really, we remain untoutched to his ignorant misfortune."Morning to you to, Father. But my bid it to eat first, soon shall I open them" I stated as i wandered through the kitchen to grab some form of excuse to not sit in there with them ranting about art-deco. Cereal was as best excuse as i could get - Frosties to be precise. From the barstool table, more could I hear of this poor excuse of my fathers social life, yet not enough to care as i spooned back a heap of Frosted flakes. With each crunch in time it made me think, how recent it seemed that how suddenly, I had hit the ageing process. For those who are not aware, the aging process is that period of time, beore you are a teenager where you seem only to age but only to claim the deficiancy of growing.
Sometime later I found myself huddled shapeless, faced square against my present. Conjuring up effortless energy as i teared through the membrane like structure we call 'wrapping paper' - i hate the stuff, sheer pointless. All we do is rip the damn stuff open to reveal what can only be descibed as 'surprise' which when put into figures, 1% of the population likes leaving a towering 99% unhappily given, only to rip. But beneath this sheet of opaque packaging lay a 4ft navy trench-coat fully fitted to the size 'humongous' - a mere 4 foot myself, fit only as a dress convieniently what i asked for though. Atleast someone hears me when i speak.
There are so very many reasons as to why this 'coat' meant as it did to me. One thing you have yet to learn about me, was my underlying habit of writing down, well generaly life. Recording happenings, events and the great Bristish public in all their glory through my notebook. I do this, well because i like to and it's comforting, going back to my sibling-less family life, and my dull fathers sense of achievement. By writing up, I've controlled my life, created a whole new veiw on life; with only the use of a notebook and pencil. Only when this becomes serious will i condone in buying myself more hi-tech equipment but for now, my pleasure lies with the foolish British public. I note down everything.
At the age of 12, my new life begun. I am now Bailey R fowler; your young investigator. This started from day 2, I am 12 and 1 day. I confidently wear my navy suit for my role, I have my notebook and I set out, to explore the depth of who my neighbours and the mishaps they may have. through looking over Mr.Morrison, to Mrs.Whiley, who to your discretion should be called Mrs. Whiney form my notes.
My first ventures out what could possibly go wrong?
