As a wee little human, I used to run away, a lot.
Here’s me, first day of school. Don’t ask why I had to wear a shirt and tie to primary school, idk either. LOOK HOW HIGH MY SOCKS ARE. Smart little chap i’ll give him that.
So running away, I love finding people who did the same because we usually share the same mentality as adults. As a kid, my family life wasn’t incredible. To be blunt, my older brother was close with my Dad and younger with my Mum. My Uncle even admits now that I was a bit of an odd one out. Which explained why he and his fiance at the time were constantly taking me out to the cinema and/or bowling. At the time I thought they wanted to adopt me from my parents, in reality, they just felt bad. School, food, house and clothes – overall I can’t complain.
So yeah, lots of arguing with family; mainly my Dad. My solution to all of this was to do a runner. There was once a CBBC show called Runaway which was designed to deter kids from doing as the title suggested and instead seek help. I thought it was the tits. The thought of starting fresh in search of a new life was a big motivation for me. Like dining in a restaurant that doesn’t deserve the bill, I bolt.
My career as a runner started slow and had a somewhat amateur nature. I gauge this by the contents of my bag when I’m caught. The first time my inventory consisted of a bottle of water and much-loved stuffed dog, Punky Doodle. I must have been no more than 8. Didn’t get far, my brother watched me leave and followed in pursuit. Made it about 200 metres before I gave up and went home crying.
Next attempt, my supplies were made up of two bottles of water, for stamina; packed into a black pull cord bag. This time I’d learnt from past mistakes. Made for the door without anyone around. Now looking back my parents were likely terrified I’d been abducted. I was caught on the road down to a nearby town named Wirksworth, my Dad had resorted to driving around in search of me and my two water bottles. Which he found. Again, I returned home with a tear in my eye, embarrassed to face the family. It’s hard to describe the feeling but being known as a kid who couldn’t even run away properly was really embarrassing. This attempt was significant. It was a Sunday, hence my Dad’s availability and the next day was a school day. I remember this like it was yesterday, my older brother told his friends about my attempted escape (as friends do). Friends who then questioned me on the rumours which were beyond mortifying. Anyone who knows me will be familiar with my genetic fuck-up being my ability to turn bright red at the slight hint of embarrassment. Suffice to say my brother’s friends could clearly see straight through my attempts to suggest my escape was simply a Sunday evening stroll.
Now, looking back my last attempt was heartbreaking and stuck with me growing up. If I could meet little Matt now I’d just pat his little head and tell him everything’s going to be just swell, and that I should ditch the Army backpack and choose a more appropriate school bag as I was soon to be rinsed by every child this side of London. Sometimes less is more with pockets.
The main difference on this runner is that I wrote a note. At the time I was in year 7, so I was what 13? The student cards we were issued at the time (B- Line cards) came with the added incentive of a free USB stick if we signed up for a library card, which I did. I wrote my letter on the family PC, Microsoft Word and saved it onto the USB. I hid it in a pretty accessible place on my desk that would only be found if someone was really looking for it. Wrote ‘runaway note’ on a post-it and stuck it on for good measure.
A few days pass and I’m planning the big escape. Each weekday I took a bus to school which went straight into the local town, from there I figured I’d try and find a train station.
Now looking back I was distraught but thankfully my Dad found the USB and accompanying post-it before I even managed to pack my bag. I was confronted, incredibly embarrassed and on the spot explained that we were asked to write a letter by our PSHE teacher along the lines of what we’d tell our parents if we ran away. Sadly, mine was very specific and not the type of homework you’d want to be read out to the class. All of this was bollocks of course, but good on-the-spot thinking.
Went a little like this.
I’m sad. I have no friends. I’m sad. I get bullied at school. I’m sad. I’m the odd one out in the family. I’m sad. See you soon.
The ‘nuclear family’ is a concept of the perfect family, according to the American Dream. A ‘nuclear family’ had a stay-at-home mother, a father who worked and on average 2.4 children. I spent a lot of my childhood feeling like the 0.4.
After finding the USB, my Dad threatened to call my school to question the supposed homework, which I agreed was a good idea, trying to call his bluff. When he picked up the phone I folded and explained the plot to do a final runner. I walked downstairs and spent the rest of the day crying in our downstairs bathroom. Sometimes I wonder if he read the note, then again nothing changed after so the odds are slim.
I’d kill to have that USB now but I know it’d hurt to read the letter. You know what fuck what I said that Army bag was cool, i’d give him his little head pat and go on my way.