The Tree House Next Door- Writing and Editing

Chapter 2 Rewritten 30/10

I swung my aching body out of bed, it was tender after a light beating a few days before. I had been to the gym, which was a regular fixture in my schedule, a compulsory addition if you ever wanted to strive in any physically demanding sport- which I did. I'd spent hours fighting through the pain (both physical and mental) to reach a respected level of achievement in my chosen sport, which happened to be taekwondo. 

Why taekwondo? Simply because as a 7-year old I had had little money available to fritter away, and the cheapest club available in my local area happened to be taekwondo. (Not strictly true- boules was free, but I couldn't picture myself playing such a game with those who were on average 60 years my senior). So taekwondo it was, and since that day I've only looked back about a hundred times.

There were times when I was down and bruised, that I thought about giving up, but I didn't know how to. I was left with no option but to continue fighting, and fight I did; over the span of almost a decade I worked my way up through the ranks from runt of the pack to second in command. Some days were hell, multiple beatings from various people left my skin marked temporarily, and occasionally my skin was marked for the rest of my life. Not all my scars made me proud, some I hated the look of, yet there was nothing I could do, so I kept on fighting through.

Even rough mornings like this particular sunny day couldn't get me down, I just kept on pushing through. Despite the amount that I complained about living at home still, there were a few aspects that perked me up. Firstly, the stock of food that was readily available to me whenever I felt the need to eat. Though there wasn't a great selection- my mother was stingy and wouldn't buy any more than she deemed necessary, and considering she ate very little (why she was so thin) what she saw as necessary didn't align with what I saw- it was better than absolutely nothing. Secondly the fact that in a year I was legally free from my parents, and like a blazing light from inside a fire, it was a piece of hope in the near future. The one thing that cheered me up every morning was the neighbours. They were a stark contrast to our family, and I loved it. Everything that our family was, they weren't.

The house was the home of an older couple, who always smiled and said hello in passing, and in the mornings as I left for school and they were collecting their milk they would spare time to talk to me. Though they were the only ones who lived there, each day their children and grandchildren would come and visit for hours on end. I don't think one person stayed longer than a couple of hours at a time, but they were always to-ing and fro-ing that it was a never ending rush of people coming and going. The different people came and went like a stream, flowing faster and slower in some parts and then dividing and careening off in another direction. Each time I saw somebody walk up the driveway it seemed to be someone whom I had never seen before in my life, giving me the impression they were a big family with about a thousand branches sprouting off of their family tree.

As I pulled the front door close behind me, the Porters were stood at their gate with Copper, a rusty red Irish setter with a constantly wagging tail and a love for chocolate biscuits, which I had first discovered while opening a packet in the front garden on a rare sunny day. As soon as I had begun tearing away at the plastic wrapping, Copper's ears perked up and his head whipped so quickly he should have had whiplash. I was soon joined by Copper, who had pushed his head so far through the picket fence that he needed only stretch out his carpet of a tongue and he could wrap it around the packet. Hence, it became customary that each morning as I left for school Copper would bound to greet me at the gate and I inconspicuously snuck him a biscuit, which he wolfed down with great delight.  

It became a routine for Copper and me to share a couple of minutes together in the morning, and every so often Mr Porter would pop his head out to whistle to Copper to come and get his breakfast. He did so with a smile and a tip of an imaginary hat to me. He and his wife seemed always to be smiling, and in my own head, I had adopted them as my own grandparents, though were probably slightly too young to be mine.