David Wilson, 7 November 1991
On the page at the back of a book, a space where I drew my mother: yellow jumper, squiggle of hair, smile weak as the smack she dealt. It made me laugh. Other boys with fathers were violently whacked. I almost envied their toughness and punishment.
I painted a policeman, a crazy tower of blue. Mother said, if I was lost I must ask one directions.
At school, I twitched, fuddled by English and...