The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part two - A Rare Kind of Normal

After not having Dad around for most of my life that I can remember, I somehow found myself living with him. I don’t remember any conversation about it, no plans being made, not even the actual move itself. One minute I’m living in Southampton, going to meet the girl from Northampton, and the next I’m in Wellingborough with my dad.

It’s strange how the mind works — how it chooses certain pieces to hold onto and locks others away entirely. But I’m learning through this process of telling my story that the mind doesn’t always keep those doors shut forever. Sometimes, just when you’re not looking for them, those “forgotten” moments come flooding back as if you’re living them again. Maybe more of the lead-up to this new living arrangement will return one day, but for now, it’s just a blank space.

What I do remember clearly is the flat. A modern two-bed, fresh and minimal, like something out of an IKEA catalogue. I liked it immediately. Dad’s a lot like me — or rather, I’m a lot like him — in the way we get drawn to new hobbies or ideas. We gather what’s needed, dream about it, and sometimes it never moves much further than that. In this flat, it was the guitars. Two of them, perfectly placed, blending into the feel of the home.

The place was clean and crisp, with a new bathroom and an open-plan kitchen and living area. Up until that point — apart from my time in foster care — I hadn’t lived anywhere that felt that nice. I was excited about this new chapter. I can’t say for sure if it was because I was away from the drugs, away from feeling lost, or because of the new love interest in my life. Maybe that part isn’t mine to remember yet. But I know I was happy. That much I remember.

One of my first clear memories there was opening a new bank account. Dad took me into town and walked me through the process. I don’t remember the specifics of what was needed, but the moment mattered. It felt like bonding — like finally getting the help from my dad I’d always wanted. And it didn’t matter that I was an adult by then. That small act meant more to me than I could put into words at the time. It’s only now, with this new view of things, that I can see just how much it meant.

Whilst living here, I got a job. I’d had a few by then, but this one sticks in my mind because it was nights — and I vowed, right there and then, to never work nights again. Fuck that. I don’t sleep well during the day at the best of times, so the whole thing just left me permanently tired.

I can’t tell you how long I lasted in that role, but I do remember the details: 12-hour night shifts, four per week, working as a CNC operative. It was mostly button-pressing and quality control — load the machine, wait, unload the machine, repeat. The nights were long, slow, and sleep-inducing. I remember having to fight to stay awake between cycles, doing whatever I could to keep my eyes open. A bit of speed would’ve helped that, I’m sure.

That’s the only job I can clearly recall from this time, but I know there were others.

The next big thing that stands out was the holiday. From what I remember, Dad had already booked it before I moved in, and then told me he’d take me along and cover the cost. Maybe there was an agreement I’d pay him back, but if there was, it never happened.

Canary Islands. Fuerteventura.

It was my first proper holiday. Up to that point, I’d only been to Ireland and Belgium — and Belgium was just for a backy run. Maybe there was somewhere else, but I don’t think so.

This one was all-inclusive, which meant I ate well… but fuck, did I drink better — or worse, depending on your point of view. I drank a lot. Woke up in the morning, ate some breakfast, and washed it down with beer. No questions asked — we were on holiday. I was in my element.

One day I went to a nude beach. I thought, I’ll give it a go. Got naked, climbed into the water… and instantly felt way more uncomfortable than I expected. Got out, got dressed, moved on swiftly. Still makes me laugh now, and honestly, I don’t think I’d feel much different if I tried it today. But at least I gave it a shot — never one to miss trying something new.

I remember having paella with Dad on the quay. And I remember something else — a bar called 7 Pints.

The deal was simple: drink seven pints in one session, get a free T-shirt. I got two. I also drank a hell of a lot more than that that night. At some point I had my face painted like Spider-Man, just for shits and giggles, and was jumping from table to table in full superhero mode. We eventually made our way to the bar — Dad probably hit his limit and went back to the hotel. Not me.

I woke up in the early hours outside the bar with nothing on my bottom half. That was… an interesting feeling. I scrambled to put my shorts back on and stumbled back to the hotel. I had my own room there. The next thing I remember is waking up and finding Dad. He told me he’d been knocking on my door for ages that morning, worried because he didn’t know where I was. We laughed about it later, but at the time… well, I wasn’t exactly in great shape.

Pretty sure I had alcohol poisoning. I eased off the drink for the rest of the trip — not so much by choice as necessity.

Later we went back to that same bar and found out what had actually happened. After my Spider-Man stunt, I’d gone to the toilet, taken my shorts off, sat down, and passed out. They had a video. When they couldn’t wake me, they dragged me out of the cubicle, left me outside the bar after closing, and that’s exactly how I woke up.

What a mess. And yet, somehow, I was almost proud of myself — even through the embarrassment. I remember calling my new partner a couple of times, saying I couldn’t wait to get back… not just to see her, but for the normality after that drinking session

Back home, there was still drinking — but it was reasonable. Fair, even. Weekends, or nights when work didn’t follow the next day — that seemed to be Dad’s rule. I only really drank socially at home when living with him, from what I remember.

Sometimes we’d go out to town, other times we’d gather with family or neighbours. We lived in a fairly new block of flats — nice apartments, not some high-rise shithole. The neighbours were great, and everyone seemed to get on well. We’d congregate on the communal car park, which was never rammed with cars. There was a table I remember my uncle making, and I’m pretty sure there was a barbecue we used from time to time, though I can’t say for certain.

Alongside these nights out and neighbour get-togethers, we’d also meet up with Dad’s side of the family — and those gatherings always meant food and a good knees-up. Most often it was at Aunty Maddy’s. They were a great bunch, and despite not knowing them for years, I felt part of the family straight away. They were, and still are, a welcoming lot.

I hold a lot of fond memories from that time, and I’ll always look back on those evenings with warmth. This period of living with Dad was actually a relatively normal time for me. I’m not really sure what else to say about it — but it felt… normal.

And then, as always, it changed.

I don’t remember the move — I never do. One chapter seems to dissolve and the next begins without a clear handover. One minute I was settled in Dad’s flat, the next I was somewhere else entirely… living with my girlfriend.

A new home together — well, new for me — as I moved in with her.

Part 3 picks up there, with a different rhythm, a different setting, and a whole new set of lessons waiting to be learned.