Becki's Peter Pan Complex

Christmas this year made me both very happy and very sad. We (and by we I mean my family, and by family I mean the impenetrably close unit of my parents, my brothers and me) did something we’ve never done before; namely to spend Christmas away from out ‘family’ (and that’s ‘family’ in inverted commas, meaning the hangers on in a variety of grandparent/auntie/annoying cousin sort of shapes). We went to a house in the North of Wales, an area I must have spent at least a quarter of my life in, and barely left the house for what was a gorgeously relaxing week. It was also the first time we’ve ever attempted a traditional Christmas dinner with turkey and potatoes and all the other extras and it was said Christmas dinner, bizarrely, that made me so sad.

It was a proper Moment as well, where a Big Think lands in your head with all the subtlety of a pneumatic drill and it’s so sudden and so intense that you’re powerless to do anything but sit and gawk while your poor, overwhelmed brain tries to digest it.

I was watching the way that everyone at the table was eating (I know this doesn’t sound even remotely important but stick with it). My mum and dad were delicately slicing and jabbing with their knife and fork, taking occasional sips of wine and doing that weird thing that grown-ups do where they squash more than one thing onto their fork and eat it all at the same time, which is a barbaric habit and I’ve always said so. Cut then to my younger brothers, both using only their forks to hack and shovel, eating only one item of food at a time and pointedly avoiding eating anything green. I was about to give a nostalgic sort of smile when I looked down at my own plate. To my horror, not only was there MORE THAN ONE ITEM OF FOOD ON MY FORK, but hiding away among the turkey and mashed potato was a piece of Brussels sprout. And I was about to eat it! If I’m going to be honest I was nearly sick. It reminded me of the scene in Drop dead Fred where the scary nurse brings Elizabeth her dinner and she eats a piece of broccoli and Fred is horrified, claiming she’s turning into ‘one of them’.

So.

It would appear somewhere along the line I’ve grown up and I am not in the least bit impressed.

This sick, grey hopelessness attached itself to me, and throughout the rest of the week all I could think about was how much you lose in the jump from childhood to adulthood. It’s things that no one ever notices that they’re missing but they’re so important it makes me sick that I’ve lived without them for so long. So now walking down a pebbly beach, instead of a treasure-trove of precious jewels, fallen stars and dragon’s eggs, they’re just rocks. Looking up at the sky at night doesn’t make my heart beat faster with the wonder of a thousand glittering dreams and ideas, they’re just stars. The clouds aren’t sky castles, they’re just clouds. The sea is endless and bottomless and fascinating, it’s just the sea. A tree is just a tree and Christmas is just another day. It seems my whole life has been reduced to the word ‘just’ and it’s such an awful, hopeless, dream destroying word.

I could almost cry for the little girl who used to leave her bedroom window open for Peter Pan.

So if I look back on 2007 with very simplistic eyes I could split it into Times That Were Fun and Times That Were Not Fun. It’s not in my nature to dwell on things so I’ll make no further mention of the Times That Were Not Fun, but it’s recently occurred to me that the Times That Were Fun can also be split, into Times That Really Were Fun and Times That Becki Pretended Were Fun. And if I’m honest the Times That Really Were Fun all involved cartoons, pointless phone calls at two in the morning and long involved games of Captain Becki and her Fearless Band of Carpet Pirates.

And it made me realise that the situation is worse than I thought. Not only have I grown up and not even noticed, it would appear I’ve not even done it naturally. I’ve done it because *whisper it* I thought I should.

Goodness me! the world cries. Becki Jayne Richardson, she of the purple hair and red jeans, Princess of the pixies, fearless Queen of the Seven Seas and wannabe Power Ranger, doing what other people think she should? E gads, ye be a liar!

No, unfortunately it’s all true. I tidy my room without being asked. I eat vegetables without being bribed into it. I can’t remember the last time I climbed a tree but the last time I was in a bank was two days ago. It’s the truth. It’s the awful, sensible, suit wearing truth.

Becki Jayne Richardson, forsaking all she once believed in and held dear…has grown up.

Until now. Now I declare my single New Year’s resolution to be regression. So far being an adult has brought me nothing but unhappiness. It’s made me stressed, neurotic and impatient. It’s made me selfish, insecure and limited. It took away my imagination and my faith in the impossible and in return it gave me rules, inhibitions and a bottle of vodka to numb the pain. Well no more. My birth certificate will tell you that July the 2nd, 2008 will see me turn eighteen but I’m choosing to see this as a half truth. In my head I’m of some indistinct age between eight and twelve and I always have been, I’ve just never let myself enjoy it because I felt I should grow up. I’m four foot something again and man is the world gorgeous from down here.

So I’m back to climbing trees instead of falling off career ladders. Back to reading books instead of newspapers and stealing biscuits instead of bottles. Back to being able to build a whole world with simply a pen and an empty notepad. Back to believing David Bowie told the truth and pop-punk was the greatest musical invention of all time. Back to believing in fairies and magic and true love and…well…back to just believing.

I wish you all the best 2008 you can give yourselves but I urge you to remember the things that mattered to you as a child and see if they’re as vital as the things that matter to you now. There’s no contest is there? So yes maybe your job’s important, as is your mortgage and your electricity bill and the horror of horrors it looks like the Jones’ next door have bought a new car and it looks like it might just be more expensive than yours. But remember when the most important thing was getting away from the witch who lived at the back of the park, finding the troll who lived under the bridge and doing it all without getting your clothes dirty enough to make your mum say ‘Now where have you been?’. Where would you rather be?

As for me, I’m going back to leaving my bedroom window open at night in case Peter Pan decides to visit, like I was once convinced he would.

Regards, Becki Jayne Richardson, Captain of The Jolly Sofa, Queen of Stair Mountain and Unashamed Believer.