A Memoir

So in English we're studying Shark Net, and so we are exploring the text type of a memoir, and so we were set work to write a memoir. In my experience, memoirs are often unnecessarily wordy, long and boring. And we were asked to write around 1000 words. My life is boring. This was a first draft of my somewhat autobiographical memoir:

And so it is, at the tender age of seventeen, I sit down to pen what shall no doubt become a memoir of astounding poignancy and insight, based on my rich and varied life experiences thus far. Indeed, some might argue that writing a memoir at such a young age is a sign of a pretentious and thoroughly disagreeable personality. I would say that those people are probably right.

Indeed, perhaps my powerful and mighty intellect can be traced back to my precocious beginnings, where, as a child of no more than four years of age, I sat and read the great classics on my dearest Mama’s lap. Whether I was quietly savouring the poetic prose and striking imagery of classics such as The Great Gatsby or the vibrant poetry of poets such as Keats, there can be little doubt that I was a child destined for greatness. Indeed, my predisposition to use ‘indeed’ to begin many of my sentences was, and still is to this day, another indicator of the brilliance I was endowed with at birth.

I suppose in order to really give an accurate portrait of my early family life, I must mention my parents. My mother, a member of British aristocracy from birth, brought with her to the marriage an untold wealth, and a five acre mansion. Papa, himself a well-to-do gentleman, only augmented the worldly riches upon which I was raised as an only child.

Nothing was denied to me. By age five, I had mastered the basics of Latin, Greek, archery, horse riding, fencing, and I was already fostering something of a penchant for clay pigeon shooting, a fond pastime which would later come to wreak most terrible consequences on my family life. But I digress. In the main, my childhood was a blessed one. Indeed, Mama and Papa were most anxious to make it so. I can still recall a test of their love which brings a smile to my face. It was my eighth birthday, and I was desirous of a particular island somewhere in the Pacific. Upon putting my birthday wishes in a formal request which I submitted to Papa, I was flummoxed to discover that he had no intention whatsoever of purchasing the aforementioned sandy retreats. Needless to say, this would not do. And so, applying what was even by then, I daresay, quite an ingenious and resourceful mind, I took one of the sabres which Papa had been handed down from his father, and took it to Mama’s throat. And I recall now, quite clearly, as if it were only yesterday, how I said to Papa:

“Papa, I really do so wish for that island. And I’m afraid I have exhausted all other avenues of request. You have driven me to this, and I’m afraid that if you do not comply, I shall have to run Mama through with the sabre, right here and now.” The look on his face still brings a chuckle even to this day. Something of a mixture between sheer terror and shock.
And he said “Come now, Timothy-Spalkins-Christopher, I shan’t have you threatening your mother with death like this. This isn’t how this house works.” But I was determined, even at the age of eight, to get my own way. And so I chopped off one of Mama’s fingers to show I ‘meant business’. Ah yes, I knew how to get my own way. That was still a summer I remember, relaxing on the shores of a far distant beach, crystal waters lapping at my feet...

Yet tragedy was to strike only the next year. While out shooting pigeons atop my warhorse Napoleon IV, an event occurred, which would have the potential to radically alter my life. Papa, unbeknownst to me, was out gathering sage leaves from our herbarium, which was in fact very close to the shooting grounds. As I galloped past gaily, giggling with unrestrained joy as I shot pigeon after pigeon, took life after life, he looked up and waved. Perhaps the movement only caught my peripheral vision, and instinct took over. Perhaps it was a moment of Freudian clarity. With a well practiced swerve of the horse and re-aiming of the rifle, I let out a shot, and Papa’s head exploded like a potato put in the oven without pricking holes first, or like a balloon full of porridge. Indeed, I would come to use many images to describe that moment in the poems that followed documenting it. Ah, if only he had been collecting rosemary for a stew of lamb shank with turnip and celery, rather than sage leaves to garnish his gorgonzola, pumpkin and prosciutto gnocchi! Yes, many a time I have thought that.

But as they say, once someone’s head as been blown up like a potato placed in the oven without pricking holes first, it can’t be undone (actually, that’s a saying I am trying to cultivate, based on my impressions of his death). And so it was just me and Mama. And the hundred or so servants hired around our mansion.

My life was to remain this way for many years, until I discovered the joys of schooling. Finally, there was a context, a workbench, if you will, for me to fine tune my already, dare I say it, finely honed skills of manipulation, deceit and dominance. I quickly established myself as a leading school bully in the schoolyard, a force indeed to be reckoned with. After an unfortunate incident involving a toilet seat and decapitation, however, I began to see that a new school was perhaps the best environment for me – Mama insisted, saying something about “they’ll only take the money if you promise to leave”. Either way, another school, another chance for conquest. Naturally, I was able to find my feet in the new environment, and have since enjoyed a productive educational life.

There, 1000 words.