The Wooden Spoon
At the weekend, I attended my first ever quiz night. My team won of course and so we each took home a box of chocolates (which I had for breakfast the next day). But I also went home with a head full of thoughts. You see, on the tables were numbered wooden spoons. Innocent enough, yes. But they got me thinking. In my childhood, The Wooden Spoon was used to inflict pain. My dad could become very creative in his choice of weaponry when he was in a drug-induced, violent rage. He beat me so badly that I had to be kept home from school in case anybody saw the bruises. But even as a tiny five year old, I don't remember fearing him. I was an angry little lion cub who knew how to use my claws and I would fight back. At times, I even knowingly aggravated his temper. Unplugging the phone from the wall to end his extremely long conversations. It was worth risking his anger if he would help me get to my out-of-reach teddy bear now that I had his attention.