Stop making sense…

I was draining some pasta earlier whilst trying to verbally prise my progeny away from the TV to force some nutrients into his scrawny body when I had a David Byrne moment.
The world stopped spinning momentarily and the words ‘how did I get here?’ leapt into the forefront of my mind.

I’m sure I was a young free spirit careering through the universe with nothing more than a millets rucksack and a tatty leather jacket. Whose body and life am I in? Who is this grown up draining pasta spirals – about to mix in a tomato sauce with finely chopped hidden vegetables to fool his lanky son into eating vitamins?

What happened to the house DJ standing at the decks steering a thousand wide-open minds to hysteria down a path of rhythm and melody? The peasant – earning pennies from day to day – picking fruit and cutting trees and digging potatoes? The fire juggler spinning flaming clubs and burning skin and mouth to astound and bemuse? The biker? The traveller? The gypsy and the wandering fool?

I didn’t trade in those people or compromise my life. I am all of those things still. But right now I’m serving up pasta for me and my boy.