Burnt Sugar – Two words indelibly etched into my memory.
As a ten-year old boy (give or take a year or two) I was eager for my parents to leave the house as often as possible. Not because I couldn’t stand the endless and frequently scary bouts of domestic abuse. Nor because I tired of the constant antagonising jibes from my Father aggressively bemoaning my lack of athletic prowess. I didn’t even want to turn my music up, or spend more time on the 1978 equivalent of a Nintendo. I just wanted the chance to be myself.
To be myself, I had to be alone. At first I didn’t realise being myself was so wrong, or such a solo activity. The brutal discipline regime provided a tangible and lasting reminder about the errors of my ways. Nothing like some regular beatings and a bit of paternal throttling to adjust your behaviour. I see Homer strangle Bart on a regular basis. Its funny. I can laugh at it. However the memory of my fathers hands around my throat and my vision starting to fade is still pretty raw. The image of a purple-faced demon with a foaming mouth and spitting hatred is etched into my mind in precisely the way it shouldn’t be.
Invariably Friday and Saturday nights were mine. After leaving me strict instructions about what I could and couldn’t do my loving parents would head off to the pub and remain there for several hours, presumably only returning when the money ran out, or the pub locked the doors. What that meant for me, was the chance to be myself. I could spend a few minutes retrieving from various hiding places around the house, all manner of items, not normally associated with a 10-year old boy. There was my prized white tights, a pair of black patent sandals with delicate heels, a green satin dress, and some little bits of jewellery, all mine, all zealously guarded, all fabulously important, and all essential components to me being myself.
Having dressed, the final act was to apply my most treasured possession, kept hidden as carefully as I could. “Burnt Sugar” a Lipstick by Avon cosmetics.
I know now that Burnt Sugar was a band-aid, a sticking plaster over a wound that I didn’t know I had. It stopped the bleeding and for a few hours a week allowed me to be who I was.
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