I've hesitated to begin this post, because, not for the first time, I'm aware of the assumptions that some would make, but, as ever, all I can do is to tell the truth, and if people choose to disbelieve me, then that's something I've no control over.
One of the slightly strange ambitions I have is to visit every Wetherspoons pub in Greater London, and I've managed to visit four new ones in the past two days. The last of the four, this afternoon, was notable for two reasons. Firstly, it was probably the nicest I've found so far in my odd odyssey, very smart inside, and with a nice, sunny beer garden (I'll forgive them the artificial grass!) where I settled myself to enjoy the very pleasantly warm spring sunshine, and, most conveniently, it's more or less on a bus route that runs within ten minutes walk of the flat. The second thing, though, was specific to today, and the source of my reluctance to blog about what happened. I noticed him not long after I'd arrived, wandering about the garden, seemingly unattached to anyone out there. A little boy, not cute at all, if I'm being honest, meandering between the tables, sitting down a little away from whoever was occupying the various spaces. He came to my table a couple of times, sat down, got up, came back, went away again, then disappeared into the pub. When he came outside again a few minutes later, he fell on the small flight of steps leading down into the garden, and obviously hurt himself. He got up, seemingly trying not to cry. No-one took the slightest interest in him, frankly, so when he walked back in my direction, still looking shaken up and upset, I couldn't help asking him if he was alright. The eagerness he showed in engaging me in conversation was almost disconcerting, and pretty conclusive evidence that his wandering around on his own wasn't coincidental. It turned out that he was 6, nearly 7 - he said his birthday is in three weeks time - and, from other things he said, it sounded like his life is far from ideal. An absent, (physically) abusive father, a mother who doesn't seem to take any interest in him at all - he said that she'd seen him fall, but there was no sign of her appearing to check on his condition. The woman did eventually emerge, to tell the boy that they were leaving, but, even then, she turned her back on him and left him to follow in his own time. I have not the slightest expectation that I'll see him again, but I wish so much that there was anything I could do to make his life better. But that, of course, would be 'grooming'. Because all that boylovers want is self-gratification, never the well-being of the boy.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
One of the slightly strange ambitions I have is to visit every Wetherspoons pub in Greater London, and I've managed to visit four new ones in the past two days. The last of the four, this afternoon, was notable for two reasons. Firstly, it was probably the nicest I've found so far in my odd odyssey, very smart inside, and with a nice, sunny beer garden (I'll forgive them the artificial grass!) where I settled myself to enjoy the very pleasantly warm spring sunshine, and, most conveniently, it's more or less on a bus route that runs within ten minutes walk of the flat. The second thing, though, was specific to today, and the source of my reluctance to blog about what happened. I noticed him not long after I'd arrived, wandering about the garden, seemingly unattached to anyone out there. A little boy, not cute at all, if I'm being honest, meandering between the tables, sitting down a little away from whoever was occupying the various spaces. He came to my table a couple of times, sat down, got up, came back, went away again, then disappeared into the pub. When he came outside again a few minutes later, he fell on the small flight of steps leading down into the garden, and obviously hurt himself. He got up, seemingly trying not to cry. No-one took the slightest interest in him, frankly, so when he walked back in my direction, still looking shaken up and upset, I couldn't help asking him if he was alright. The eagerness he showed in engaging me in conversation was almost disconcerting, and pretty conclusive evidence that his wandering around on his own wasn't coincidental. It turned out that he was 6, nearly 7 - he said his birthday is in three weeks time - and, from other things he said, it sounded like his life is far from ideal. An absent, (physically) abusive father, a mother who doesn't seem to take any interest in him at all - he said that she'd seen him fall, but there was no sign of her appearing to check on his condition. The woman did eventually emerge, to tell the boy that they were leaving, but, even then, she turned her back on him and left him to follow in his own time. I have not the slightest expectation that I'll see him again, but I wish so much that there was anything I could do to make his life better. But that, of course, would be 'grooming'. Because all that boylovers want is self-gratification, never the well-being of the boy.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
I take exception to your last two sentences. If helping young boys in trouble were "grooming", then I'd surely be in jail. Showing concern in a (paternal?) manner, and making sure a boy is OK is NOT grooming. And I know you wouldn't do that anyway.
ReplyDeletePeace <3
Jay
Hello Jay
DeleteThat 'codicil' to the post was ironic, of course, referring back to the 'assumptions' mentioned at the beginning. Jake, the little guy in the garden, was so obviously starved of attention, even of care for his welfare, as evidenced by the fact that he talked so eagerly and openly to a stranger, but, given that I'm a self-confessed boylover, many, probably most, people would believe that I only took an interest in the boy because I wanted to abuse him. The truth is otherwise, of course, but the truth never seems to matter in this context.
Love & best wishes
Sammy B