I trundled up the stairs one by one. Each step bounced wearily. My brother followed me patiently. As we arrived at the top on the landing, he turned to me and flashed the usual ‘Well done, Christopher’ look in my direction. He always played that card. I could tell when it was coming too. The first sign was the point at which his face began to concave, slowly screw itself up and finally the eyebrows would drop.

And so, with my brother’s ‘glare of death’ fitting into the routine as usual… There was only one more comment to be added on the subject. It came, as always…

“Just wait till your Father gets home!”

Ah yes, that famous old line. If any parent is to be taken seriously then it has to be used at least twice a week and delivered fearlessly. You could even argue that it’s at the backbone of any successful family relationship as it does so much to emphasize the power of the parents.

When you’re twelve years old though, you’re not really concerned with the debate of whether or not you’ve got good parents… You’re too busy slumping down onto your bed, screaming into the pillow and wondering what the hell got you into this mess in the first place.

“I hate this place,” I muttered.

Even as the words trickled from my mouth, I knew I was lying. It made me feel a great deal better by thinking that they’d wronged me in some way though. What had they ever done for me besides clothing me, feeding me and nurturing my youth? Bastards…

The world is such a lonely place when you’re locked up in your room without a computer or a TV screen to keep you company. Even if you had spent the rest of the day just messing around and not actually doing anything productive… when someone takes away one of your privileges you instantly want it back.

So, begrudgingly, I sat up on my bed and gazed around my room. It just seemed so much empty and smaller without any activity. My Nintendo sat quietly on the floor and flashed me a sympathetic look. I could almost hear its calls telling me to turn the power on. Still, I couldn’t. I wasn’t a particularly defiant child. That was probably because I hated seeing my Mum angry. Either way, I decided to stick it out and allow time to pass.

Time didn’t want to pass though. Being grounded automatically ensured that the clocks began to move that little bit slower than usual. Five minutes seemed like an hour. An hour seemed like eternity.

It always took me a few days to recover from being grounded. Looking back, I suppose it was comparable to being locked in a cell with no light for a month like they did with that guy in the Shawkshank Redemption. Unlike him though, there was no way that I could escape the prison. No tunnels. No rock hammers. No pick axes.

Back then, nothing could put a smile back on my face, even after I’d been ungrounded. I’ll admit that I sulked a lot as a child, but I wasn’t used to things that didn’t go my way. My parents were too soft as well. They hated it when I pulled my face and felt as if they’d really done me wrong. Maybe it was because they thought they were failing as parents. I don’t know. Either way, I was showered with promises of treats… and, out of spite, I threw most of them back in their faces.

“Do you want to go to the park?”

“No.”

“Do you want an ice cream?”

“No.”

“Do you want that new action man figure?”

“Bite me, you worthless whore.”

Ok, maybe I didn’t go that far. That’s not really important though. What was important was maintaining my miserable facial expression and holding out for the best possible treat that they’d throw at me… then snatching at it before it was taken away. So, I played the waiting game as thoughts of my grounding still left me traumatized …

Finally, it came...

“How’d you like to go to Florida for your holidays next year?”

Bingo.

Even though the holiday didn’t materialize until I was pushing twenty, it was the promise that made all the difference. Florida represents everything ‘right’ with the world to a twelve-year-old. There’s magic. There’s hope.

There’s Disney World!