The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon

Anthony Blackie

Copyright © 2015 Anthony Blackie

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Wigan is the place, that garden city of the north, where romance can often catch you out. Nothing to do with Uncle Joe's mint balls or the legendary Billy Boston. When its spring time here, and the Ancient and Loyal Borough rolls out its magic, take care!

I cannot blame myself, my chosen one was gorgeous, really one of the most mouth watering, knee buckling beautiful girls around, yet not quite human, and with a fault that was so well hidden, until it was too late. It is true that in Wigan, many of the women are Goddesses, and that all the men are bigger, braver, and stronger than anywhere else.

Unfortunately…, I was born in Blackburn, I always knew it should have been Wigan. So at the age of three, I set off walking to the land of cherry and white, towing my parents behind me.

After many hard days on the road, we reached the market square of down town Wigan. Here we were absorbed, painlessly and completely until we became pie eaters with everyone else.

Now my tale is a blow by blow account of how one man survived fifty years of married life……not only to the same woman……but managed to crawl away and tell his story. Perhaps the seven year age gap may be a factor in all this.

My own Goddess, the one with the Andreas volcanic fault, was sixteen nearly seventeen when we first met. I was an immature twenty three year old. In those golden, halcyon days, she had not learnt to argue and had a sort of age related awe for her mature worldly man. Thinking to herself, this is ‘my man', ‘how lucky I am', ‘I must never upset him'!

It is a great shame but this wonderful thinking, like believing in Father Christmas doesn't last forever. Soon after our wedding, my world was shattered by the hints of what was lying in store. She can, and does, go from near normal to ballistic with no in-between stages, at the ‘drop of a hat'. Very often this can happen after my failing to keep one of her six hundred odd ‘golden' house rules, like……. putting my dirty coffee mug on the wrong side of the sink.

Let's be honest, nobody, would knowingly marry a dragon, that's not how it works at all. You set out aiming high, pulling the best that you can. Assuming your girl has all the ‘bits and bobs' in all the right places, coupled with masses of the ‘wow' factor, you marry the best that will have you. A quick look at the check list shows, top marks go to a nympho brewer's daughter. Most of us never see such a creature. But I know a bookie's daughter has to be high on the rankings. Then by and large most marriages descend to bumping along at the bottom of life. We all like to think we struck a little gold, but there is a lot of Pyrites out there.

Without careful editing and showing only selected snap shots, my story would be just too painful too bear. So don't expect a novel, a fast flowing easy read, this is real married life stuff. You may be fooled by the gentle, warm even loving way, it all starts out. Only when the young gorgeous wife finally morphs into a full blown ‘Dragon' does the excruciating suffering become enjoyable.

Best to keep handy a box of tissues, some aspirins, plenty of strong drink and a mojo if you have one. Read it in slow, sensuous sips, but be brave. The first section is ‘prep work' for future life and then loads of lovey-dovey scenes of early married life,…..stick with it…..

Anthony Blackie 2015

The first Mr & Mrs Sharrock knew about it was glancing up at a damp patch on their front room ceiling which had been growing at an alarming rate, seconds later water seeped through the cream textured ceiling paper and gently cascaded down onto their guests, in a cold and unwelcome way.

That Sunday, Mr Sharrock, free from banking duties, had mowed the small patch of grass at the back, and was impressing friends with a quiet and genteel afternoon tea.

Pamela and I had played outside rolling over and over on the pile of grass cuttings, covered from head to toe in green, and thinking it will be a good idea to go inside – sneak up to the bathroom and wash ourselves down. There we had filled the bath to the top, the surface was now covered with a blanket of cuttings. As soon as we stood up the floating grass bits jumped back onto our bodies and stuck like glue. We found the solution with the aid of a large jug, and both taps running at full belt, so there we were pouring jugs of water over each other.

This was working really well – when Mrs Sharrock flew through the bathroom door, I was standing next to the bath in all the naked glory of a six year old – shouting ‘more, Pamela, more' – she happily throwing jug after jug of water over me.

Now Pamela was my first ever girlfriend – not only was she a little older than me – and smarter. Everyone believes that girls are quicker than boys, I do now, so I reckon I was led astray. Something like this has got to be my excuse.

Girls always bring trouble and disappointment or both. The second time I fell in love, I gave myself to Sylvia Garner – even the name was magical – I fell for this fair haired

seven year old beauty. There was something about her teeth, I can't remember exactly what – but true love overrides such irregularities. At seven, I was getting on and ready for romance and life in the fast lane.

So I asked Sylvia out to the pictures, a normal and natural thing to do. I didn't worry about the logistics of the adventure. The transport, the cost and buying admission to the cinema, were not considered. On Saturday afternoon, I was there at the rendezvous, – outside the Post Office on Wigan Lane, next to the tall gas lamp post, clean, changed, hair brushed all I needed now was Sylvia.

I hadn't given much thought to how this would take place either. I suppose I expected her to drop from the sky or appear as if by magic! Soon a car was approaching, it slowed down – in it I saw Sylvia – but to my growing alarm and panic – I realised the driver was her father, a grown-up.

I hadn't bargained for Mr Garner at all. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by embarrassment – this nearly put an end to everything. There wasn't a hole in the ground big enough to swallow me up.

Luckily nature kicked in, I swarmed up the handy lamppost, near the top was a bar that stuck out at right angles, for supporting the service ladder. I hung down from this bar – my little skinny legs and bony knees dangling down to greet Sylvia's father and the laughing Sylvia. Obviously it must have been the unique and correct way to introduce myself, as all passed off well, Sylvia and I enjoyed the pictures – sweets and crisps, as well as being chauffeured home afterwards.

As I grew older and bolder – in the course of fumbling attempts to get to grips with girls – life with its hidden snares, came up with – hiding in the dark with Felicity, a friend of my cousins. We were sitting in silence – like statues – I knew something should eventually happen….. but what and when, like waiting for Christmas to come? Neither of us said a word, minutes like hours ticked by, slowly it dawned on me.

I had recently learned a new word, a very, very naughty and secretive word – so wicked that I had never said it out loud anywhere, never mind in ‘public'. No-one even thought that I knew it – I had no idea what it did! or meant……..but so explosive was this powerful little word that I realised it was the key. By the way of an icebreaker and opening a conversation, I said ‘Do you know what F- – – means?' She didn't turn a hair, not a flicker of interest. I had expected mega reactions…….. turn backward somersaults or a flash of bright luminous green. Anything – but no – she was more interested in scratching away at a small scab on her knee!

All this in preparation for the marriage of a lifetime – these are the ones who coloured my early life plus a few others! They all sharpened me up and taught me how to recognise the true gold icon – when I saw her!