Delta40
08-05-2009, 08:02 AM
‘Them three little un’s never had nuttin and ahm done talkin’ about it.’
What a silly way to pronounce words. But that is how people often talk on Dr Phil. Even if the twang sounded like an out of tune banjo, the sentiment rang true for the middle aged woman who watched the show. She absently drew the terry cloth dressing gown tighter around her chest as the guest continued talking.
‘Ah tell ya Doc, them mites grew up on nothin more than Disco Duck and tv dinners! They ain’t ever had good ol’ home cookin!’
The audience laughed. Dr Phil smirked. A stab of pain shot through the viewer. She drank her wine and grimaced.
Who ****ing cared about Disco Duck anyway, she grumbled, in a bid to numb the barb. She dozed on the couch. Her jaw slackened. The old gown slipped open. The cats’ gaze followed a spidery web of life marks along her body.
When she was a child, her Father loved Disco Duck. On Fridays after work, he would pick her up from school and together they would drive to the local pub where her mum worked as a barmaid. Disco Duck would pound out on the cassette player and they would bop along in the old white Kingswood.
Friday Nights at the Beacon was balloon night. The lounge area was filled with colourful balloons. It was a perfect place for a child to crouch down and hide. ‘Careful you don’t lose yourself in there.’
Her father tickled her. He was her hero. Swaying bodies, pressed against each other, danced the night away. Children crept around sniggering and giggling at the grown ups. As the evening progressed the music slowed to a more romantic tone. ‘You’re Slipping Away From Me’ was a favourite of hers and she was not so young that her heart didn’t feel the pulse of love in the room.
One Friday night, in the smokey, heady atmosphere, it happened. She got lost amongst the balloons. A hand found her and pulled her close to him. Too close. The parental warning: ‘You be nice to grown-ups now. Remember what I’ve told you!’ rang loud and heavy in her ears.
Amidst the soft threads of music, terror was apparent. Panic rose in a chest too small to contain it. Breathless gulping and dry swallowing. The need to escape even though escape was not a word she knew. Colourful, bright balloons. On the floor. In the air. They made the room look fun. They floated past happy faces. She caught sight of her Father kissing her Mother. Eyes only for one another. They were so far, far away.
The smell of alcohol engulfed her small frame. He let out a deep he-groan.
‘I love you so much.’ He turned to her and breathed hotly across her fear stricken face.
The middle aged woman woke suddenly. Her heart was beating at a pace she knew well. Her body was exposed. It spilled across the old couch which was too small to accommodate her. The wine glass lay on its side. Doctor Phil’s Texan accent cut through her mental fog: ‘How’s that workin’ for ya?’
She closed her eyes again. Somewhere, she thought she heard a 'bang!'
What a silly way to pronounce words. But that is how people often talk on Dr Phil. Even if the twang sounded like an out of tune banjo, the sentiment rang true for the middle aged woman who watched the show. She absently drew the terry cloth dressing gown tighter around her chest as the guest continued talking.
‘Ah tell ya Doc, them mites grew up on nothin more than Disco Duck and tv dinners! They ain’t ever had good ol’ home cookin!’
The audience laughed. Dr Phil smirked. A stab of pain shot through the viewer. She drank her wine and grimaced.
Who ****ing cared about Disco Duck anyway, she grumbled, in a bid to numb the barb. She dozed on the couch. Her jaw slackened. The old gown slipped open. The cats’ gaze followed a spidery web of life marks along her body.
When she was a child, her Father loved Disco Duck. On Fridays after work, he would pick her up from school and together they would drive to the local pub where her mum worked as a barmaid. Disco Duck would pound out on the cassette player and they would bop along in the old white Kingswood.
Friday Nights at the Beacon was balloon night. The lounge area was filled with colourful balloons. It was a perfect place for a child to crouch down and hide. ‘Careful you don’t lose yourself in there.’
Her father tickled her. He was her hero. Swaying bodies, pressed against each other, danced the night away. Children crept around sniggering and giggling at the grown ups. As the evening progressed the music slowed to a more romantic tone. ‘You’re Slipping Away From Me’ was a favourite of hers and she was not so young that her heart didn’t feel the pulse of love in the room.
One Friday night, in the smokey, heady atmosphere, it happened. She got lost amongst the balloons. A hand found her and pulled her close to him. Too close. The parental warning: ‘You be nice to grown-ups now. Remember what I’ve told you!’ rang loud and heavy in her ears.
Amidst the soft threads of music, terror was apparent. Panic rose in a chest too small to contain it. Breathless gulping and dry swallowing. The need to escape even though escape was not a word she knew. Colourful, bright balloons. On the floor. In the air. They made the room look fun. They floated past happy faces. She caught sight of her Father kissing her Mother. Eyes only for one another. They were so far, far away.
The smell of alcohol engulfed her small frame. He let out a deep he-groan.
‘I love you so much.’ He turned to her and breathed hotly across her fear stricken face.
The middle aged woman woke suddenly. Her heart was beating at a pace she knew well. Her body was exposed. It spilled across the old couch which was too small to accommodate her. The wine glass lay on its side. Doctor Phil’s Texan accent cut through her mental fog: ‘How’s that workin’ for ya?’
She closed her eyes again. Somewhere, she thought she heard a 'bang!'