With a rebel yell she cried “More! More! More!”

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So, no comments last post but subscriptions are not to be sneezed at – Thank you! In other news I took a walk last night. It was a beautiful evening, crisp and clear and quiet. It was good to get out, get some fresh air. Then I heard a plane take off and every fibre of my being wanted to be on it.

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It was 1987, I was sixteen years old. We’d just left the Stepfather and my freedom was absolute. I often used to walk at night, alone. Then, as now, it was the quiet and the solitude, and probably the swimming against the tide, as is my wont. I was fresh from an all girls Catholic highschool and had started year 11 at the public co-ed. It remains one of the best years of my life.

On my walks I would often run into this kid from school. He was in my year but looked older, seemed older. I don’t know if he was older, but he was infinitely more street wise. He drove, and had longish hair and was one of those incredibly charismatic individuals, effortlessly cool. In the high school hierarchy he was not to be messed with. His name was Sasha. I loved that name then, I love it now. 

We’d run into each other around town at night. He with his car, his entourage, his girl, his cigarettes and me on foot. We’d stop to chat. About nothing and everything. I amused him I think. He christened me ‘Night Stalker’, and addressed me as such with heavy irony each time we met. The year I was sixteen I looked thirteen; anyone less vaguely dangerous and mysterious as the moniker ‘Night Stalker’ would suggest you’d have been hard pressed to find.

I like walking at night. I have for a long time. I’d forgotten that about myself.

I wonder where Sasha is now?

 

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