5 is a good number

sirrichard
Originally uploaded by peas on toast.

Before I go into why, here is a pic of the charismatic Sir Richard Branson, who foofie slided off the Sandton Towers, with orange smoke coming from his bottom. I got to meet him - bless.

But that's not the immediate focus of today.

I wish I could be 5 again. If I can revert back to a time in my life where I was so wonderfully ignorant, so wonderfully uncomplicated, so happy, that would be it. Being 5 means you know enough about the world in order to survive in the truest of all senses. I was a very content 5-year old.

It was a stage where I kept well away from boys because they were gross, I didn’t go to a club or pub to get hammered in my spare time. I climbed trees, played with My Little Pony and drew pretty pictures instead. I wore clothing made for me by mum: red overalls and red Wellingtons. I cried about things like not wanting to eat my spinach or if I fell off a swing. Not boys, friends, work or my parents. My disposable income went towards Chappies and stickers. Now it goes towards bills, rent, petrol, car insurance, car accidents, medical aid, a pension fund, cellphone fines, club entrance, vodka limes, sauvignon blanc, cigarettes, the dentist, groceries, a workable wardrobe, a playtime wardrobe and playtime itself.

Life at 5 was good.

I was lucky. We may not have had a television in our house until I was 12 (my dad decided it best I read lots of books and play outside as my leisure time), but my parents took me travelling on a regular basis. When I was 5, they took me to France and the UK for three months. I spent hours with them on the back of my dad’s bicycle exploring northern Brittany, Normandy, Dorset, London and environs. I was never bored – I drew a diary of the whole experience and I dictated the words that my mother wrote down. (I couldn’t write just yet.) I played on my own for hours on D-Day beach, picking up crabs and building sandcastles. I ate crepes, made friends on train journeys and played in my London aunt’s red stilettos and earrings for hours. I was completely happy to hit the sack at 7:00pm.

When I was ten, the folks whisked me out of school for half the year and took me again to the UK, Canada and the US. I even went to school with my cousins in Quebec, a convent called, hilariously, Immaculate Conception. (Shoulda stayed there in retrospect.) At ten, I started liking boys immensely, meaning at 5, I was actually a helluva wiser then than I was even at ten.

At 5, the days where the world was good, no one could hurt me; I was blissfully unaware of how imperatively fucking awesome that part of my life was. How thankful I am for it today.

At 25, twenty years later, I wonder whether I will reach 80 (not looking likely with the current lifestyle), and if I do, whether I can revert back to that time when I was a happy-go-lucky flipping 5-year old.

PS: Flynn [uber main character] died of cancer yesterday in Home & Away. I sobbed like a baby.

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