Eldest daughter appeared earlier today. Dad, I cant do my homework. Looks up from Poser (bloody light settings). Oh, why? Its English. Ive got to write about something that happened when I was five. So? I cant even remember being five. Sure you can And I go on to remind her about ten years ago when she was five. Yeah, but nothing happened when I was five. I stop and think. Well, pick something little and embellish it a bit fancy it up. How do I do that? I try and explain what I mean but eldest daughter feigns incompetence and a total inability to understand what I am saying. Right, says I. Go away. Come back in an hour and Ill show you. Daughter goes away. I sigh, curse parenthood and the school system, then shut down Poser and open Word. The following is what I knocked up to use as an example and I thought it might amuse. BEING FIVE Five, you say. God, whats to remember about being five! Hot summers, skinned knees thats about it isnt it? Oh come on, it was a long time ago after all. Ah, now wait a minute. Yes, five Thats about the time when Mum decides (quite arbitrarily by the way no discussion with me) it is time that Mummys little boy is quite big enough to go to bed all by himself. And that was it, no more going up the stairs hand in hand with dear old Mum. No more being tucked in nice and tight with a favourite toy or book. That was all finished with. From now on it would be a case of bath, half an hour in front of the telly and then Time for bed Jack Do I sound bitter? I dont mean to, no, really. Its just that well If your Mum doesnt take you to bed whos going to scare the monster away? Yes, I know it sounds silly now but when you are five its a serious problem let me tell you. Okay then, youre five. The dread words have just been delivered by the grand matriarch. You turn your head to protest and hopefully try to wheedle out another few minutes. But, just as you are about to begin the Aw but Mum speech, you notice the look. Im sure you remember the look from your own childhood. The particular face your Mum would wear that, in this case, says Ive had a bad day. I went shopping without my purse. When I got home I found the kids in the back street had been using my newly washed white sheets as a goal for their football. And your Dads due home in half a hour and I havent even started his dinner. SO DONT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT YOUNG MAN. So I didnt. So now here I am. Five years old standing at the bottom of the stairs in a pair of pyjamas I might grow into by the time I hit thirteen, ready to face the prospect of the monster in my room. Ah well, better start climbing the wooden hill. Up the first step. Of course the monsters varied depending on what you had been watching on TV. For a long time it had been the Zarbi, those giant ants out of Dr. Who. But tonights monster is a really bad one. Up the next step. Last Christmas, some aunt or other (who must have been feeling particularly nasty) had given my older sister a book. Grimms Fairy Tales would you believe? What a book to give a kid! And this one had pictures! Pictures which my sadistic sister had taken great delight in showing me. Up the next step. As a consequence, tonights monster is a tall spindly man with a long thin face who wields a pair of enormous scissors. Apparently, according to my sister, these scissors are used to cut the fingers off naughty children. What heinous crime a child had to commit to warrant such a fate sister Susan never said. Up the next step. I wonder if it will hurt? Up the next step. Pause to hitch up pyjama bottoms, the legs of which have a tendency to get caught under-foot so that if you are not careful, by the simple act of walking you can quite effectively end up pulling them down with your own feet. Up the next step. Of course, trying to explain the monster thing to Mum can earn you anything from a quiet rebuttal to a smack (but only if you persist). Either way, you still end up going to bed my yourself. Up the next step. Over half way now. It isnt that I know for certain that there will be a monster. There never had been so far. But far from allaying my five year old fears, it just makes it seem more certain that this time it is more likely there will be. Up the next step. Waiting for me. Up the next step. In my room. Up the next step. Sitting on the bed with the scissors. Up the next step. I can see over the top step now. I can see right down the landing to my door at the end. Dont parents know how sinister it looks, a door at the end of a narrow corridor? Up the next step. Relief! The door is shut. A shut door is good, the monster has to open it to get you. An open door is nearly as good, you can see into the room - and if you cant see the monster you know it is definitely hiding behind the door, which is an advantage. But if the door is ajar Seriously NOT good. You cant see into the room and you dont get the warning of the door handle having to be turned before the monster can open the door. Up the next step. Only one more step to go. This is the point of no return. Here you can safely look behind you and decide if it might be worth having another go at Mum (not tonight though Jacky boy remember the look), or bundle up your courage and pyjama bottoms and step onto the landing. Because once you are on the landing you have to keep your wits about you. Take your eye of that door for a second and SNICK! SNICK! You wont be picking your nose ever again! Okay then. Last step. Bare feet on worn carpet. Hug the wall, left hand on dado rail, right hand holding pyjama cord to mouth. Yes, at five I used to chew my pyjama cord. I wouldnt get on to twiddling a lock of my hair endlessly around my finger for another three or four years. Slowly slowly along the landing. Past Mum and Dads room on the right with all its strange smells, bet they dont have monsters. Up to the bathroom door open, to air it out but at the moment still full of warm damp air after the dirt and adventure of the day had been washed down the plug-hole. Next to the bathroom, my sisters room. Pretty much the same as mine yet subtly different a different environment for a different creature. Now, I stand at last before my door. Five years old in pyjamas laughably too big and sucking on a well chewed pyjama cord. Of this heroes are made. You dont think so? Let me tell you. It takes a brave five year old to crack open the door to the monsters lair and reach in to turn on the light. Especially when tonights monster is armed with a pair of scissors big enough to snip off your fingers. Fear you dont know fear till youve risked your fingers in a dark room like that five year old did that night. Tonight our hero was lucky, the monster was obviously waiting in some other little kids room slowly opening and closing the blades of his scissors as he watched the bedroom door. But what about tomorrow? The End Eldest daughter comes back, reads it. Great! Can you put it floppy for me? No. Says I, closing Word and opening Poser. Ive done my homework you go and do your own. Jack P.S. Can anybody else remember being five?