Monday, 26 March 2012

Meet: Me

Anthony Hett (Hetts, Hetty, Hetwald, Hurricane, Hetters, Douchie...)

Hi *waving* - I'm Anthony Hett and I've known me for most of my 28 years. I can be a little opinionated and not always make the best decisions but I mostly like and get on with me - mostly. I'm a wannabe writer, a wannabe photographer, workshop facilitator, sen teaching assistant and now a blogger (I suppose).

So, as I am me, I obviously have an anecdote or several thousand about myself. Some funny, many embarrassing, several tragic and maybe one or two that are slightly enlightening (maybe?). But not so many I want to share with anyone outside my close family and friends (if even them). For as you can probably imagine, most of said stories don't necessarily show me in the best light, or at least not in the light I want to be seen in. But this is my blog, so I get to choose the story. This is the stabilizers story, the story that shows me the way I want to be seen - which probably says something in itself.

The story starts with a loud CRUNCH! My dad, thicker hair, darker mustache, 25 years younger, leaps from a plum 1985 VW Golf to find my tiny, black and yellow BMX crammed beneath a rear tyre.

An angry dad might have been mad with me for not leaving it in a better place. But I was 3; where else was I supposed to leave it? Instead - as a good dad - he was just massively relieved that I wasn't still on it as he reversed over it.

As it is, I'm playing safely inside and the bike looks ok. It probably has a new scratch or two but in all looks just fine. Except, stepping closer he spots a slight problem. Both stabilizers are bent into a pointless ineffective new shape. But my dad, being an 80's dad - when dads knew how to mend things - forgets all about where he was going - probably B&Q, it's a weekend - and takes the bike to our magical garage, walls adorned with my grandfathers old carpenter tools. Whipping off the newly ineffective stabilizers, he leaves the bike leaning against the garden wall that wasn't there when we were children - poetic license - and sets about bending them back into recognisable stabilizer shape, quickly, before I or more importantly my mum realises there is anything wrong.

In good dad - bodge it yourself - fashion they're nearly good as new inside just a couple of minutes. That's just a few short minutes (minutes are quicker in Wales) so imagine his surprise - can you see it etched across his face? all furrowed brow and mouth ajar - when he finds that the bike has been stolen! I mean, when he finds that it's no longer against the - not yet built  - wall. What else could that mean?

Don't worry the answer is coming up -> In blind panic, 80's dad rushes his slighter frame out into the street, to find a gang of thieves, no not really. No, instead he finds me, his three year old son happily riding around the street on my bike. I say three, I think I was three but it's hard to tell anymore. Every time my mum tells this story - and it's one of her favourites - she has me getting younger and younger. At the last count I was two and a half; in a few years I'll be a foetus with a big blonde bowl cut riding a bike.

Unsurprisingly, I don't remember a great deal of the actual event - I have trouble remembering what I was doing ten mins ago - but one thing I do remember is that the bike was a little difficult to get onto. Maybe it was a little too big for me, or more likely it was just a little unstable without the stabilizers. Either way, filled with childhood exuberance, I dragged my bike - newly freed of heavy stabilizers - to the side of the path, jumping up onto the curb to get a little higher, I climbed up onto the seat and set off with a fearlessness I wish I still had I would like to think I still have today.