”“Where is he? Would he like to come too?”“Nah. He’s gone off somewhere.”Somethin’ in my tone must have alerted him to my real feelins', because he looked at me for a minute, his face blank. Then he gave me a sweet smile and said, “C’mon then. Let’s go.”He didn’t have a surfboard rack on his car but it didn’t matter. It was an old Kingswood station wagon, rusted and a bit worn and tatty, but big, so we put the board in the back. We didn’t bother to get changed. I only had my wetsuit, and some shorts and a t-shirt in my backpack. You’re not supposed to drive in thongs or without a shirt but Mattie did anyway.The house was an Edwardian wooden bungalow, with boards which were once white but which were all peelin’ now, and Windsor-green doors and window frames and veranda posts. The garden was full of ancient cedars and a couple of oak trees and creepers and the sound of doves. It was so cool and nice. I envied him this place. My flat was fuckin’ horrible. Inside the house, it was filled. But I liked little boy things. War, cowboys, and spy's. Always, I was the hero, captured by the bad guys, tied up and forced to put on women's clothes. Now I never heard of such a thing, so I don't know how I came up with that. We lived next to some woods. I would take some of my mother's underwear and my sisters clothes along with some rope. I had two places that I would go. Both were hard to see unless you were right up on it. I would play out the whole seen, right up till dressed; my unseen enemy would tie me to a tree. I would make a loop, put my hands in and then wrap the rest around my arms. I would hook my hands over a low hanging branch and hang there.One day, I found that the branch was to low. I found this other tree that had a part of one up about a foot higher than I could reach. I would climb up; hook my tied hands over and them let go, just hanging there. I was feeling I loved. I them found, as I was getting ready to climb down that as I wrapped my legs around the tree.
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