Who Am I?

Not the Jackie Chan film of the same name, no, although it is, of course truly wonderful. I love kung fu. As do the Axis, who demonstrated this fact with near-fatal aplomb the other morning when they should have been chowing down on their organic bran flakes (note to self: do not bother with organic, it only feels doubly irritating when the gruesome twosome splatter themselves, each other and the walls with the more-expensive gloop instead of the Lidl GMO stuff). I walked in just as the Kong was leaping, Karate Kid/Eddie the Eagle Edwards style, from the top of the dining table, directly onto his brother's head. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, which gave the Pie time to assume a suitably combative position, raise his hands high in the air, catch his airborne younger sibling and spin him round in the air like a plate. Much screaming and yelling ensued. I calmed down quickly, however, and recovered enough to interrogate the Axis without too much swearing.

"What the HELL was that?"

They looked at each other and shrugged. The Kong decided to pipe up. "It's who we are, Mum. We're superheroes! Arrrrr!" (Superheroes? Pirates? That's what you get for birthing and raising your kids in the West Country).

The boys are pretty confident in who they are. They don't see it as a problem to assume other identities when the mood takes them, either. For example, on picking them up from holiday club, I couldn't help but notice that the other children were all calling the Kong, 'Superman'. The staff at our local Sainsburys all address him as 'Batman'. A very dear friend of ours used to call him 'Little Loo Brush Head'. Bet you can't guess why.

Since they were born, however, I have had little or no idea who I am, or what is going on half the time. I'm lucky if I know which way is up most of the time. Added to that, in the three years since I've been the sole adult resident at Axis Towers, I have relied heavily on the support of Mr T and Wolverine for most of my life decisions. "Oh, Mr T," I sigh, "Will I ever find love again?" Mr T looks at me quizzically. "Don't gimme no back talk, sucker!" I ponder his response. "True, true. I do appreciate the concision of your appraisal of my situation. I suppose it's true that I have a preponderance to fall for men not on the basis of whether I find them attractive, but on whether or not they find me attractive. This reverse reasoning, or 'back-talk', as you so winningly put it, is completely self-defeating. But I can't seem to help it! Whatever should I do?" T scowls at me in contempt. "Shut up, fool!"

Mr T is right, of course. Several of my other friends have said as much. Wolverine is no more help. His face is permanently tightened into the clenched growl sported only by the chronically constipated. If I push the buttons on his back, I can make him growl, turn his head, and kick his arms and legs. He's the most biddable boyfriend I've ever had. "Tell me, Wolverine. Should I apply for this fantastic-sounding job? We'll have lots more money and I won't feel like such a loser all the time. But I don't know if I can do it. I'm just a de-skilled, depressed single mum now. It's been years since I did anything interesting and challenging like this. But I want to be at home with the Axis as much as I can, and I'll never see them if I get this. But we need the money, we're brassic. If I could clone myself, and send the clone out to work to earn money, that would work! What should I do?" Wolverine is furious, clearly, at the unfairness of my desolate situation. "Uuuuuuuurrrnnnnnggghhhhh!" he replies, and kicks both his legs above his head, causing him to flip over and land in the Playdoh Pizzeria. Luckily I manage to reach down and rectify him before he's turned into a Fiorentina.

I go to pick up a friend who has offered to help detoxify Axis Towers, and, while I'm waiting, gaze at the goldfish in its bowl in her kitchen. The fish gapes wildly at me, banging its head against the glass, looking horrified and pleading. Three seconds later, it has forgotten and is swimming around, seeing it all for the first time. Again, it leans into the wall of the bowl, performing its horrific pantomime, without any control over its destiny. You never hear, I think, of a goldfish that really wants to be mayor, or a writer, or anything at all, really, and I suppose it's just not possible. I felt a bit like that goldfish. In the bowl, swimming along, relying on the goodness of others to keep going, permanently petrified. Still, if your memory's wiped every three seconds, it can't exactly be a bad life, can it? The water looked pretty clean and comfortable. The fish was clearly well-fed. Perhaps it's a more enviable existence than we realise, I think. Perhaps, if you're really lucky, you get to come back as a well cared-for goldfish. Perhaps that could be me. I look at her swimming around the bowl. My friend's husband comes in, flicks the bowl with his thumb and tuts. 'Bloody fish. Think he's got dropsy.' I turn, alarmed. 'Really? What does that mean?' He mimics the poor creature. 'Means he's just gonna get really fat and, well. Kind of explode.' I bend to look again through the bowl at the goldfish. Disconcertingly, my, holographically superimposed on the body of the doomed pescean, face stares back at me through the reflective glass.

As Wolverine said, later tonight when I told him that story, Unnnnnnnghhhhhh.