Pyromania Cured

 

PYROMANIA CURED

I have to admit that as a child I was a pyromaniac!

How's that for an opening line?

I start now a couple of confessional parts of my story of my life.

It is true. That it was at a rather modest level is also true. But just how modest pyromania is I leave for you to decide.

I must have been around eight years old I think I was fascinated by fire! Not the heat, but rather the different colours in a flame. The dark centre, the blue tinge,  the yellow and orange flame at the top... fascinating! The problem with such fascination is that I would love to strike matches, use my Dad's lighter, play with a gas fire in the kitchen, all this does not make for a safe home.

Mom has scolded me, punished me, took away my comics (a major punishment!) and even stopped me going to play with my friends after school, all to little avail. In such cases at home the last recourse was the threat of:

"Se lo voy a decir a tu padre!"

("I am going to tell your father!")

Much as I loved my father, in matters of punishment, I feared him far more than I feared Mum. This, despite she being the more customary dispenser of the lighting-fast slap and any other well-deserved punishment. But in this case I have to admire, as I still do, the way she handled it.
Her tactic was as intelligent as it was effective.

"David...."

"Yes, Mum"

"Go down to the SPQR and buy me a pack of matches"

She gave me a whole £1 note... the old green ones, remember?... Which I found strange, but being the good little boy, I was (??shushhhhh) I went down to that very well-known tobacconist and bought her a box of Key brand matches.

"David, what is this?"

"What you asked for, Mum, a box of matches" I replied handing her the change of 1 blue ten shillings note and assorted coins.

"No, I asked you for a PACK. That is 50 boxes all in one pack. Now go down and get that for me please"

I went back down and I explained to Mr.Corso, the owner of the SPQR, that I had made a mistake.

"De verdad que tu madre te ha pedido eso, chiquitin?"

("Are you sure this is what your mother asked for, kid?")

I assured him it was, paid him and took the pack up to Mum.

She opened it and placed the 50 boxes of matches on a tray.

"You like playing with fire?"

Was that a trick question?

"I know you do and I have punished you many times for doing that. You are endangering us all by playing around with matches and lighting fires. Imagine if the house burned down! What if we died burnt to a crisp!"
Such a graphic image … but still it did not sink in.

I did not know what was coming but from her expression I knew this was something I would regret.

" I want you to go to the bathroom with this tray and light up all the matches"

What Machiavellian punishment was this?

I loved lighting matches so I took the tray sat on the stool next to the toilet and started lighting a match at the time. She sat on compact, comfortable armchair in the bedroom from where she could see me, took that month's copy of the Woman's Journal and started to read.

Box number one did not last very long, no did 2 or 3 or 4 for that matter. But by box number 5 I was getting tired of striking match after match and tossing it into them in the toilet. Each box contained 50 matches and I had 50 boxes to go through.... you do the maths.

But I was a resourceful little bugger, so I took one match out of box number 5, struck it and touched the phosphorus in of all the others in the box.

VOOOOM!

They all went up in a glorious mini bonfire! Clever huh?

"David, go back down and buy one more box and bring it up…. right now!"

It was not easy to get anything past Mum, even when she was reading the Woman's Journal!

Back to the toilet, the tray and the stool.

One by one I struck every match in those 51 boxes. Strike and throw in the toilet, strike and throw, strike and throw... 2550 times .... Oh and keep flushing the toilet 51 times too, after finishing each box. Obviously, I burnt my fingers, many times. I got tired of this "hard labour" punishments and I cried,,,,,
“Mummy … please!”
 but there was no reprieve.
Mum kept on reading and telling me.
"Carry on. You still have more boxes to go"

I finally I finished all 2550 bloody matches” I had been singed, I stank of phosphorus, I felt sick from the fumes and I hated Mum who I was by then certain, must have taken a course at the Lubyanka!

But it's worked.

It shook me out of that dangerous and stupid habit I had got myself into.

The days of David the Pyromaniac Kid were well and truly over!