A Conversation With My Six-Year Old Self
– Who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom? Mummy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.
– I’m not a stranger; I’m you. I’ve come from 30 years in the future.
– What’s happened to your hair?
– Yes, your hair is quite fair in 1977, but it will get gradually darker with time.
– No, I mean the grey bits.
– Shut up. Those aren’t grey. They are some left over blond bits. Anyway, I’ve come to tell you about the future.
– Cool. Have you got a spaceship? Or a jetpack?
– Er, no. I drive a Renault Clio. Diesel.
– That sounds rubbish.
– It’s my girlfriend’s.
– Girls? Eurrgh!
– Yeah, you’re going to change your mind about them. Anyway, you know how you love cartoons? Well, I’ve come to tell you that in 30 years’ time you’re going to spend a whole day watching every episode of a series, then you’ll get a job writing a new episode. Isn’t that exciting? Isn’t that the coolest job in the world?
– What about my dream of becoming an accountant?
– What?
– I’d like to help companies do their accounts and VAT returns every quarter. Or maybe be a management consultant.
– But being a writer is great!
– It sounds worryingly unpredictable in terms of workload and income, with lots of crushing disappointments on the way. Do you even have a pension?
– Yes!
– A final salary one like Mummy and Daddy have because they are teachers?
– Er, no. I sort of give some money to someone every month and they, er, I’m not really sure. By the way, that book you wrote about the cave was rubbish. I’ve deconstructed it on a website in the future and everyone agreed that the characters and plot were very poor.
– I’m only six for fuck’s sake.
– How do you know the word fuck? I didn’t know the word fuck at the age of six.
– Because I’m just a literary device, and you think it would be funny to make a young child swear. Frankly, if that’s the kind of thing I’m going to grow up to write I’d rather be an accountant.
– Fuck off.
– Ow! Mummy!
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