How old was I when the reams of green came home? I can’t find the colour –
lime. Maybe chartreuse, but no kid knows that word. Fuck, I don’t know that
word. It was stripy with holes down the sides. In my mind they’re the holes
punched in the kids’ copy of The Hungry Caterpillar. Strange isn’t it? Where
it takes you.

If we’d been gentle, we could’ve torn along the perforations, separated the
holes from the banded block. We didn’t give a gentle fuck. That hasn’t changed.
The kids’ fucked my favourite work pen yesterday. I told you to use gentle hands.
Stacked, until you lifted the top sheet. An arm’s length revealed a vertical
accordion, pealing paper of coded Courier: your programme.

We turned it around: skies, clouds, flowers, potatoes as people, sometimes
rainbows. I began writing along the lines. Why was it green? Why was it
stripy? Be grateful you’ve got paper. Even then I thought too much.

One time you brought home a fresh stack and you sat next to us at the table.
I’d never seen you doodle. We sat together, stuck between the lines. Not long
after, you tossed your stubby yellow pencil and sighed. Maybe you weren’t a
fan of green stripes either? More skies, clouds, flowers, potato people and
rainbows.

Enter the Father from stage left, backlit from the window – glowing. A thick
nightmare descends, thunders. The stripy accordion is silent. The ensemble is silent.
Fuck