Lord Loss sows all the sorrows of the world
Lord Loss seeds the grief-starched trees
In the centre of the web, lowly Lord Loss bows his head
Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line
Curled inside like textured sin
Bloody, curdled sheets for skin
In the centre of the web, vile Lord Loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, Lord Loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all
Shuns friends, nurtures foes
Ravages hope, breeds woe
Drinks moons, devours suns
Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes
In the centre of the web, lush Lord Loss is all thatâs left
â Double history on a Wednesday afternoon â total nightmare! A few minutes ago, I would have said I couldnât imagine anything worse. But when thereâs a knock at the door, and it opens, and I spot my mum outside, I realise â life can always get worse.
When a parent turns up at school, unexpected, it means one of two things. Either somebody close to you has been seriously injured or died, or youâre in trouble.
My immediate reaction â please donât let anybody be dead! I think of Dad, Gret, uncles, aunts, cousins. It could be any of them. Alive and kicking this morning. Now stiff and cold, tongue sticking out, a slab of dead meat just waiting to be buried. I remember Granâs funeral. The open coffin. Her shining flesh, having to kiss her forehead, the pain, the tears. Please donât let anyone be dead! Please! Please! Please! Pleâ
Then I see Mumâs face, white with rage, and I know sheâs here to punish, not comfort.
I groan, roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, âBring on the corpses!â
â The headâs office. Me, Mum and Mr Donnellan. Mumâs ranting and raving about cigarettes. Iâve been seen smoking behind the bike shed (the oldest cliché in the book!). She wants to know if the headâs aware of this, of what the pupils in his school are getting up to.
I feel a bit sorry for Mr Donnellan. He has to sit there, looking like a schoolboy himself, shuffling his feet and saying he didnât know this was going on and heâll launch an investigation and put a quick end to it. Liar! Of course he knew. Every school has a smoking area. Thatâs life. Teachers donât approve, but they turn a blind eye most of the time. Certain kids smoke â fact. Safer to have them smoking at school than sneaking off the grounds during breaks and at lunch.
Mum knows that too. She must! She was young once, like sheâs always reminding me. Kids were no different in Mumâs time. If she stopped for a minute and thought back, sheâd see what a bloody embarrassment sheâs being. I wouldnât mind her having a go at me at home, but you donât march into school and start laying down the law in the headmasterâs office. Sheâs out of order â big time.
But itâs not like I can tell her, is it? I canât pipe up with, âOi! Mother! Youâre disgracing us both, so shut yer trap!â
I smirk at the thought, and of course thatâs when Mum pauses for the briefest of moments and catches me. âWhat are you grinning at?â she roars, and then sheâs off again â Iâm smoking myself into an early grave, the schoolâs responsible, what sort of a freak show is Mr Donnellan running, la-di-la-di-la-di-bloody-la!
BAWring!
â Her rant at schoolâs nothing compared to the one I get at home. Screaming at the top of her lungs, blue bloody murder. Sheâs going to send me off to boarding school â no, military school! See how I like that, having to get up at dawn each morning and do a hundred press-ups before breakfast. How does that sound?
âIs breakfast a fry-up or some cereally, yoghurty crap?â is my response, and I know the second itâs out of my mouth that itâs the wrong thing to say. This isnât the time for the famed Grubbs Grady brand of cutting-edge humour.
Cue the enraged Mum fireworks. Who do I think I am? Do I know how much they spend on me? What if I get kicked out of school? Then the clincher, the one mums all over the world love pulling out of the hat â âJust wait till your father gets home!â
â Dadâs not as freaked out as Mum, but heâs not happy. He tells me how disappointed he is. Theyâve warned me so many times about the dangers of smoking, how it destroys peopleâs lungs and gives them cancer.
âSmokingâs dumb,â he says. Weâre in the kitchen (I havenât been out of it since Mum dragged me home from school early, except to go to the toilet). âItâs disgusting, antisocial and lethal. Why do it, Grubbs? I thought you had more sense.â