Everybody Needs A Mr Bent

21-03-2014 Friday

After making tons of sketches I’ve finally made one of Mr Bent that I like. Mr Bent is not the kind of guy who likes to pose for these things and I don’t see him every day, so I had to draw him from memory. After each visit I’d made a new sketch at home. It’s not like I take my drawing utensils over to his place, he’d probably hide in the kitchen if I’d do that. If I were Mr Bent I’d probably do the same. Here’s the sketch. It’s safe to show it here to you, because he doesn’t read these things.


Mr Bent is a man of the world. He has been to places and has seen things beyond my wildest dreams; I really value what he says. Yesterday he told me that Unice could get stuffed. Unice had invited herself over for a cup of tea. She just barged in through the door, sat down on the sofa after having mentioned the big mess he was living in, and then she went on and on and on about her life. When she had finished talking about her life (more or less) she started gossiping about people in the street whom she has only seen maybe once or twice. Mr Bent didn’t know half of the names Unice mentioned and, frankly, he couldn’t be bothered with any of her stories. Who cares if their neighbours are having a fight over whether they should or shouldn’t buy a new car!? Mr Bent did tell me that Unice is spelled without an ‘e’. He said that it was a mistake Unice’s father had made when registering the name or something. Mr Bent said that that was not the only mistake her father had made, but I don’t know what he meant by that.
Actually, I didn’t go to Mr Bent because of Unice – who is moving in this weekend, God be with us – but because I needed his advice on girls again. Well, one girl in particular. The other day Mr Bent told me I should use a condom, which is great advice, but it is a bit premature for that. We haven’t even kissed yet (Evelyn and I, I mean, not Mr Bent and I …. That’d be weird, not to mention illegal.) and that is what I needed advice on: kissing. I told you I had been practising on my hand and with my toothbrush and I nearly broke of part of my tooth. Luckily it was just part of the brush. Mum wouldn’t get me a new one until one week after, because she said it was my own mistake for having chewed on it. When the toothbrush started to scratch the inside of my mouth so bad that it started bleeding, Mum finally decided I could use a new one. Mr Bent’s advice was not to use toothbrushes in the future.
‘Kissing is something you shouldn’t practise on anything else but people. In my case preferably on Evelyn. It might be a bit odd at first and maybe you shouldn’t immediately start French kissing, but just a romantic and passionate English kiss. When? You ask me. The best moment? Well, sometimes you just have to seize the moment yourself. You can wait for a romantic moment, but sometimes the kiss itself creates the moment and the romance all by itself. You’ll forget the world around you, and it just feels like flying. Go with it. Carpe Diem,’ was more or less what Mr Bent said. I think he maybe right. Though I have no idea what he meant with Carpe Diem. Still … where to find the guts to just do it (no, I’m not sponsored)?
Talking about guts. I promised Evelyn and myself to tell Mum and Dad about our relationship tomorrow. Evelyn is going to tell her parents as well. We’re both dead nervous about this. Believe it or not, but we’ve actually talked about this. I know a little more about her now as well. She wants to be a singer in a band one day, but she feels she is too shy. And she told me how much she likes poetry and reading. I think we’re going to be very happy together.

See me tomorrow.

06-03-2014 Thursday

Dear Friends,

Today no story about my life, but a word of thanks. My name is Arthur Didymus. But most of the times people at school (or out on the street, for that matter) just call me ‘Ey!’ I am a socially challenged 14-year old boy from Paddington, London. I live with my parents who might just love me, but have a weird way of showing it sometimes. My dog Cheddar is better at showing his love; wagging its tail as soon as I open my door. True, my parents don’t have a tail to wag, I’ll give them that.
I would like to thank you all for just being here (or there), reading my blogs, being my Facebook friend, talking to me and sometimes even complimenting me on my writings. Sometimes I am just lost for words and it takes me an hour to write a simple reply of just a couple of sentences. I don’t really know how what way to thank you other than dedicating this blog to you. You’ve been very kind, supportive and helpful.
When I started using Facebook and writing this blog on 01-01-2014 I never expected to have any readers at all, let alone people that would react to my writings or accept my friend requests on Facebook. It was Grandma’s idea of getting me to mingle in the crowd, practise some social skills and make new friends. Grandma does not even own a computer herself. This is also more or less a thank you note to her, even though she won’t be able to read it here. I will print a copy for her. Thanks Grandma.
Should I ever have the chance to thank you personally, you bet your life I’d do that. Until that day I hope you’ll accept these words of thanks and I hope that you know that by reading my blogs, by accepting my friend requests on Facebook or sending me one, by commenting on my blogs, you made a big difference in a young boy’s life and that boy wishes you all the best in return. Thank you very much.

Kindest of regards,

Arthur Didymus

Street Radio




The other day Mr Bent told me a story about Amelia Dyer and he casually mentioned ‘streetlights’. I was always told that they used to be candles on a stick and that people were hired to light those candles in the evening. A man (or woman?) had to walk round town lighting all those candles on a stick. I have always wondered whether he also had to walk around in the morning blowing all those candles.

Later they replaced the candles with gas lamps and even later, after the inventions of electrickery (thanks Catweazle) and light bulbs (thanks Edison), they replaced all those gas lamps with electric light bulbs. Which makes me wonder what is next, maybe a 24 hour artificial sun. But that is not the reason I started going on about a silly thing as streetlights. I started this, because I wanted to get a very different message across.

For some reason these streetlights got me thinking. Actually, they put me in a more a less philosophical state. Let’s say you live in a lovely little street or lane or what have you and there are some 25 streetlights there. All those streetlights working like they should; shining their lovely little light straight into your room as you are trying to catch some sleep. Each and every day you walk passed those streetlights and nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Until one day you notice that one of those streetlights is actually not really working. All the lights are burning, but there is one at the end of the street that is not shining its light on things. So you walk up to it and as you get closer you start hearing a vague hum or drum. The nearer you get the louder it gets. You also start to recognize a certain tune and as you are standing next to it, you can clearly hear a song by the Beatles coming from that streetlight.

Some people will just find it very odd and go about their business. Others will call up somebody to come and fix the (nasty word) streetlight. Maybe somebody would kick it, because they think they somehow possess the magical kick that will turn the light on. Only the happy few will see the streetlight for what it really is: a dang good radio.

I think the same goes for people. There will always be those who want to change you, because they think you are broken. There will always be some that think you are an oddball. Others will ignore you, maybe because they don’t understand you. But the few, oh happy few, will see you for what you really are: a very good person in your own right. And that’s what you’ll always be.

See me tomorrow.

26-01-2014 Sunday

Mum’s shopping spree was a great success to that  respect that we didn’t get into any arguments, at least not a lot. Of course she had to point out my chubbiness every now and again whenever I needed a larger size of anything. I suspect her of deliberately picking clothes one or two sizes too small, just so she could make her statement. Maybe it would have worked better if she weren’t size elephant herself.

I found some pictures we took on Christmas day so I’ll put them up on Facebook. Oxford Street is not my favourite place to be in London, but it’s got a lot of shops and it sells what Mum wants to buy. I know that there are nicer places to go to, but Mum does not want me to go shopping at a place like Camden. She’s just acting posh. I happen to love Camden and it would have given me a chance to get some Yumchaa tea and velvet cake.

So, what did I get? I got: two pairs of jeans, three shirts, some new underwear and socks, a tie, and a lovely woolly hat that Mum hated but I loved. Mum says it messes up my hair, I said that if she didn’t want it to mess up my hair, she should see to it that I got a proper haircut that cannot be messed with. That was more or less the only argument we had. Today was a good day.

If you were wondering about my Dad’s whereabouts, he was at home. Mum had made an entire list of chores for him to do while we were out shopping. It was a list of mostly things that had to be fixed, repaired or mended; men stuff. Dad likes men stuff. Makes him feel useful. So, by the time we got home everything was more or less fixed. The tap was still a bit leaky and one of the kitchen cabinet doors was gone, but other than that, perfect.

After dinner I went to see Mr Bent. That man must be impossible to live with. Piles of books and papers blocked the door. He had to get all of that out of the way first before he was able to open up the door for me. Inside it was like he had emptied his bookcases and thrown everything onto the floor, it was a gigantic mess. I have told you about his condition, this must take ages for him to get back onto the shelves again.

After I had finished staring at the carpet of books, I asked Mr Bent,

‘What on earth happened here?’

‘ I was looking for something,’ was his reply.

‘ But,’ pause for dramatic effect ’WHAT!?’

‘ Just, some book I thought I had somewhere.’

‘ Mr Bent, please, don’t tell me you threw all your books on the floor, just because you were looking for one in particular?’

‘ Yes, and my efforts paid off; I found it.’

‘ Well, at least you’ve got that going for you, which is nice. But what

about this mess?’

‘I’ll start putting back those books tomorrow. I think I’ll put them back in alphabetical order. That might be the wisest thing to do.’

This is where he more or lest started mumbling and talking to himself. It became inaudible to me, so I tried looking him into the eyes and said,

‘ Can I help you?’

This questions woke him, it was as if it was his cue. As if someone suddenly pressed ‘play’.

‘ No, I’m beyond repair, love. Besides, what else is there to do for an old man like me?’

Can you believe it!? For one book that he’s probably not going to read anyways, because he’ll forget. At least he made me make tea this time, which is already a big change for him. He never lets anybody do anything for him.

While I was making tea, Mr Bent came into the kitchen with the dowsing rods. Of course he had an amazing story tell as well. Mind you, it had nothing to do with the dowsing rods; totally unrelated to each other. The story will have to wait till later this week, because I am deadbeat and really have to go to sleep. I got home at 22.30 and Mum was not happy about it. See me tomorrow.

15-01-2014 Wednesday


Mr Bent was not impressed. He said the White Noise thing is just a load of (and then some words I am not allowed to say). And those Ouija boards, if they work at all, can sometimes summon ghosts and spirits you’d rather not summon. Mr Bent doubts all the Ouija board stories. Most of those people just wanted to be the centre of attention and found a good way to get that attention. He said the best and safest thing would be to just take pictures and pray for the best. He did have an interesting story for me. A place I should abso(bad word)lutely visit some day.

Supposedly the area around Charterhouse Square is ghost heaven. It looks like an ordinary garden surrounded by some lovely old buildings. Some of these buildings have their own frightening ghost stories which he said he’d tell me about one day. The garden has a nicely mowed lawn, some more or less melancholic looking tree, and it is private; so only those who have a key can enter it and enjoy it to the max. Maybe enjoy is not the right word. The fact that there’s a railing around it has not prevented people – mostly school kids – to get into the garden.

This idyllic looking garden is set on one gigantic, enormous, immense plague pit.  More than 50,000 victims of the plague in the 14th century were thrown into this pit: dead or alive. ‘I’m not dead!’ Well, they were not fooling anybody, were they? They would soon be, so it was best to just chuck them in there with all the other corpses or corpses to be. Better to be safe than sorry.

I don’t think I’d want to live there. It is said that people can still hear the screams of those who were buried alive (well, nearly dead). Teenagers dare each other to climb over the fence at midnight, place their ears to the ground to find out if they can hear those who were thrown in there alive amongst the rotting corpses. Listening to the screams and howls underground – beneath the grass and the dirt -does not sound very appealing to me. On the other hand… if that is what it takes to become a real ghost hunter, I might just want to look into it and see what I can do.

I am going to keep it short today, because a tsunami of homework hit me this week. I can’t even see my desk anymore and this time it is not because of all the dirty clothes I always have lying about the place. A bag of crisps, chocolate bars, some yumchaa tea (chili chili bang bang … gotta love it) and here I go. See me later. 

08-01-2014 Wednesday


Survivor Man strikes again. I really have to tell you this; it was probably the worst joke ever. Maybe some of you out there will like it, but it made nobody laugh in our class and there was even a rumour that somebody started crying (that’s how terrible it was) though, we’re unsure whether there was a causal relationship between the crying and the joke.

This morning as we were waiting for our teacher to show up for English class, I was minding my own business while everybody was all over the place. Suddenly the teacher walks in and… Oh, wait. Well, you see, our teacher is a very slim guy, in his late thirties, beard, kind of hip but not really and no matter what he eats, he just does not seem to gain any weight (the girls all hate him for that). He walks into the classroom and he has got this enormous potbelly. Other than that he seemed perfectly his same old slim self; just a very fat belly. One hand was rubbing it, and the other one was supporting his back. From the looks of it he was in pain (labour pain?).

Somebody pulled up his chair for him and helped him sitting down. The entire class fell silent. You could literally hear a pin drop (not that anybody tried). He looked at us and everybody was just staring at his big fat belly. It was beginning to get awkward. As he was staring back, you could see he was looking for words. Then he opened his mouth to say,

‘So guess what happened to me last night?’

Everybody thought he got drunk, but before anybody could say anything he continued,

’ I was sleeping and dreaming about being a boy scout aged 12 and we were all sitting around this lovely campfire singing campfire songs and roasting marshmallows. All of a sudden one of the boy scouts looked up and pulled a face as if he suddenly remembered he had forgotten to turn off the gas. He ran to the big tent and after a minute or two he came out with this huge marshmallow. It was gigantic, enormous, immense, and … pink.

He sits down with this marshmallow and starts heating it. It was totally awesome. The marshmallow got hot and gooey and started turning black a little bit, and when it was done he said that we could all help eating it. So, we did. We started eating the monster.   

I couldn’t get enough of the thing. It was delicious and I bet Willy Wonka would have wanted a sample of it so he could make these suckers down at his factory. We ate and ate and some of the kids started to give up and throw up, but not me. I ate as if my life depended on it. At one point I was the only one left eating the darn thing and I was planning on eating all of it. It took me over an hour, but I did it. When I had finished my stomach was really hurting and my belly started growing and growing and growing and it got bigger and bigger and bigger.’

He stopped talking and the entire class was still staring at him in disbelief. Evelyn – the most ignorant girl in class – dared to ask him THE question nobody wanted to ask,’ What happened then?’

‘I woke up like this and my pillow was gone.’

Facepalm! See, this is what I have to deal with at school. This is what those teacherpeople get paid for and we have to undergo these methods of torture each and every single day. I’m not sure but I’ve got a hunch that our teachers’ ancestors worked in torture chambers or invented all those torture devices. As physical abuse is no longer tolerated at schools, they have perfected their skills in psychological warfare. Maybe I should take notes, just in case.

Last thing I am going to say today is that I am planning on going to Bank of England and check out the site myself. I am not counting on meeting Sarah there, but I would like to see the site for myself. Like I said, I’ve been living at (and under) ‘the rock’ now for too long, it’s time for Arthur Didymus to get out there and start living for a change! See me tomorrow.