Tommy Collison

You and I shall have to have words.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, I’m a nice guy really. I don’t set out to make enemies, they sometimes just fall into place. Sleep is one of those enemies. Car washes is another one. I was terrified of these things (and lifts!) in my youth, and while I’m okay with lifts now (preempted by an alternative of 10 flights of stairs, I’d wager), the dislike of car-washes always lingers on. I suppose that scene in the Bond movie A View to a Kill won’t have helped much, the one where Bond’s fellow agent is killed as his car is being put through the car wash.

So, along with car washes and lifts, sleep was always something I disliked. As a kid, I hated going to bed. I wanted to stay up, and finish that Lego house! Mum, Dad, don’t you see how cool this is? Let me show you just how awesome my Lego house is! Don’t you care about my house?

Evidently, they didn’t, as I was packed off to bed.

As my 6 or 7 year cursed them and wished painful things upon them, I began to hatch a plan to circumvent by imposed captors’ rule. At about 5am, I crawled slowly out of bed, Bond theme playing in my head, planning to sneak past the den of the sleeping lions that went by the nickname of ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’. Hmm

I edged my way out of my room, being careful to avoid the creaky floorboard. A few more steps and I was at the stairs. Putting one bare toe on the top step, I tested it. Would it creak, ruining my escape attempt? It held, and I was spared a trip back to the solitary confinement block, Steve McQueen-style. Like a mouse that has the cheese in its sight, I scurried down the remaining stairs.

With 3 steps to glory, disaster strikes, as it is prone to do. My foot, which had tiptoed down the other steps, decided to just fall flat on the step, the smack! of my barefoot noisemaker fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house*

My stomach plummeted into my toes. My eyes travelled upwards, to the door of the lion’s den. As I watched, it slid silently open and my Dad appeared. Wordlessly, he pointed to my bedroom. Resignedly, I went back, not bothering to pick up my stomach. I slid inside the door, and counted down from 250. I heard Dad go back to bed.

Once I reached 0, the Bond theme in my head unpaused and I slid outside. Being mindful of the creaky floorboard, I got to the stairs. This time, my plan of action would be different. This time, I would simply race down the stairs. While this would create slightly more noise, I assumed the fact I was getting down quicker would balance it out. I know you can spot several flaws in this plan, as can I, but let’s not be overly belligerent toward my 6 year old self, shall we?

My plan didn’t work. I hadn’t reached halfway before Dad appeared, actual anger replacing the annoyance from earlier. He grabbed me and forcibly returned me to my bed, warning of dire retribution if I ‘tried that again’.

I began my count from 250

And fell asleep.

Some James Bond I am!

I’m going to try and become a spy for MI6 when I’m older, and they’ll read this, and not let me in. Fail
 
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* Unlimited brownie points if you know where this comes from. Answer in comments. I’ll be well impressed.