Personal Narrative My Old Babysitter - 1456 Words

Recently I heard some troublesome gossip about my old babysitter which made me somewhat pensive. So being a judicious type, I decided to write in my journal, recounting a particular chapter during a summer morning; bookmarked in my long-term memory. During the school holidays in my tenth summer, I was lying under the garden tree (which happen to be an apple tree) staring at a single Worcester pearmain that was eclipsing the sun as zephyr tenderly rocked it back and forth; giving it a seductive allure, while I was thinking about the previous night. Mother and father were having an agitated discussion downstairs in the living room. Sitting on my bed not able to sleep; listening to the muffled nouns and verbs fencing between them, until my†¦show more content†¦Surely the apple I m looking at must have a gold one? Was the idea that came to a mind not yet limited by conventional means; but a child s jejune, like an original scribble. Beside me, parked in the two-week pre-cut grass, were my matchbox cars. Three police cars and a red Ferrari Mondial were ready for today s episode. From time to time I ll go and play with those cars and fantasize the uneven duality between the good guys and the bad men. Although the criminal in these imaginings was not a villain; his motives for the crimes were somewhat chivalrous, whereas the police had a fraudulent agenda. The misunderstood hero in a Robin Hood fashion would steal from the corrupt and give to the desolate; escaping from high-speed chases in a Ferrari, ransacking the tall concrete bank towers, which overshadow shanty towns in a totalitarian city, controlled by the decadent; throwing a brick to their Murano glass chandelier way of life. Once my father referred the police as pigs so I also incorporated the image into my playing; the police were evil humanoid pig creatures wearing man masks always outfought by the hero. It s quite jocose when I reminisce about it now, and I m sure it s common among young lads that they would often think of themselves as the hero with a strong mature body; I know I did. The acts of heroism would never be the act of violence, so I would employ the antics of laughter. Such as