This is my spot.

The bigger boys can have the football pitch, the grown ups have their footpaths and noisy roads, but this bit is mine.

Nobody can see me down here. Far enough down the hill that I can’t be seen from the path or the bridge overhead, this is my secret quiet spot.

I lie on my back with my head in the flowers, listening to the people passing by. They’re all in such a rush, such a noisy rush to get somewhere they don’t want to be. I’m exactly where I want to be, this is my spot.

Sometimes, if I’m quiet, I might see a rat or some rabbits playing in the bushes or maybe a fox sneaking home after staying out until the daytime. I even saw an otter once down at the edge of the stream! They all like it here in my secret, quiet spot.

So it’s ok when Daddy comes back from the pub and blames me for everything. It’s ok that Mummy cries when she thinks I’m not looking. Even the secret things I’m not supposed to talk about that Uncle John does with me that make me feel funny in my tummy are ok, because I’m just going to stay here in my secret quiet spot where no one can find me.

I’m not crying! You’re crying!

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George Beedham

George is a comic writer/artist, taking a busman's holiday from writing about people in tights being punched in the face. Please bare with him as he tries to remember how the hell to write without pictures.

Latest posts by George Beedham (see all)

• A Gentle Reminder - 26/05/16
• Thoughts on Body Worlds - 10/05/16
• Fifteen Seconds - 29/03/16
• Barry’s Fairy Story - 18/03/16
• The Walls That We Make - 01/03/16