Autobiographical Encounters of the Second-Chance Kind by Brian Hutchinson

Born a hot-bath and gin babe, post war and poor. A survivor, conniver,
curious, spurious. Greedy and needy. Nothing I wouldn’t do, wouldn’t take,
or take heed. He - rather me - was a kid, lived for kicks. Always rooting. Convoluting:
‘Why did you do that, take them? wait ‘till your Father gets home, he’ll sort you.’

And sort out is what happened; ‘Out of my body, the window, the garden, to pictures on the wall,
back to the bed, the characters inside my head. I was dead. I died inside, I cried. Vomiting life as a
mess. Sang a new song, of ‘Never again’. Again. A same old tune, for a five year old loon.
Never a learner, permanent sojourner. Biding his time, then on fortified wine, perhaps a vermouth,

uncouthly sleuth. Never told the truth, the lied about, tried about, anyways cried about, getting his
fix of fixing elixir. Codeine blips. Cider trips, estorlina fighting and bentox bluesing. Carousing
Wales. Childhood tales. Leggers on lorries. Out to the hills, adventures and thrills, with the bad and
the really bad. We were mad and mighty. I’m glad I had the journey, the vomit, the anger and

the almighty Summers with a guy called ‘Shitey’. The sad makes, reprobates, ironed and scrubbed
out, until I was straight. Springtide inside pubescent’ out. Emotional rout, all the way, washed away
innocence. Wantonly wild; couldn’t take scolding, belligerent child. So took my, ‘See if I die pills.’
Why pills, paracetes’, aspirins, anything I could chuck in. Muck in. The system. Wont listen.

Glistening void. Limboed emotions. Chucking down potions, to let them ‘see me’. Cold and dead,
with a bow. Do you love me - now? But I didn’t die, why? Nobody knows. Not I, nor Mum or Dad
- both now ‘dust-dead, phantoms walking a dream.The time, that time, a time when time was a set-
time, perfect time. To die time. That ‘Still don’t know why time. So I’ve weathered the symptoms

and learned how to never ask why. Thirty a time. Twice times two times. The times to try
something different times, not quite digestible; blood-vomit vestibules. Cleaned up all gone
forgotten. Never seen or learned, or the dying son yearned for. What a fool ...king-tool.
Don’t swear, don’t lose it, abuse it. Your chance. This once in a lifetime, time