“Not me!” Appeared to be the collec-
tive response of Bob’s gutless mates.
“Noooo, I haven’t been,” Bob,
squirmed, his voice tightening. “I
promise.”
“You have, I know it, and next time
it happens,” Stan threatened, “I’ll
have you!”
From that day onwards, I never
heard the name Pumpkin Head
again.
I am forever grateful to Stan for
topping the living hell that
ad become my high school
ife. In the respite he gave
e, I was able to restore my
ragile sanity before year’s
nd. This helped me a lot.
lthough I was no longer
eing wounded by bullying,
still carry the scars.GIFT EMERGES
omewhere in all the chaos
f school, and at the ripe old
ge of 15, my voice broke. It
appened one weekend in
979 just after I woke from a
eep teenage slumber. It was
Saturday morning and from
my bed I called out, “Cup of
tea and toast, thanks, Mum.”
Mum stopped dead in her tracks,
wheeled around and stared at me with
a look that said, “Who are you and
what have you done with my son?”So, I repeated myself, and my words
came out deep and guttural.Hmmm,
maybe I’m coming down with a cold,
I thought.
My new voice would turn out to
be my Willy Wonka golden ticket.
My voice box had swollen and myin Los Angeles in 2010PHOTOS: FULTON FAMILY COLLECTIONMUM STOPPED DEAD, WHEELED AROUND AND
STARED AT ME WITH A LOOK THAT SAID, “WHO ARE
YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY SON?”124 Augus t 2019
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