I didn't have many girl friends as a kid.

Well, actually. I had none.

In fact, thinking back, I don't recall any girls in our neighbourhood – I’d think it had something to with me being ‘that girl that always plays with the boys’.

This state of affairs was carefully orchestrated by me: my social position of "honorary boy" in the neighbourhood did not come cheap. Maintaining it took cunning, intelligence and UN-esque diplomacy:

It started on one of those days when I was wedged inbetween our postbox and my mum's rhodendendron bush. I used this position of hiding with great success when I tired of being my brothers' coffee making skivvy. (Remarkably, I was taught by my darling siblings, to make a perfect cup of coffee at the eager age of five, and encouraged to practice this art several times a day.)

From this position, I was able to while hours away, spying on the boys in our street playing what seemed like endless wild and dangerous games.

On this day, a huddle of boys sauntered over to me.

"Do you wanna play Cowboys and Indians?" - Boy, staring at a spot to the left of me, trying to look bored and completely disinterested.

"Okay then. If you want to", me, trying to sound macho and worthy of such an honour whilst furiously trying to work out what a COW BOY would look like.

I considered the dilemma of where exactly the cow's UDDERS would go on such a boy - trying to imagine whether one would be required to moo, or talk...

And an indeehan...???

"What do you wanna be, Cowboy or Indian?"

Like a rabbit being assessed by a pack of starving dogs, I sensed the gravity of this moment: several pairs of eyes were rivetted on me.

An expectant hush descended.

My throat felt dry.

COW BOY or INDEEHAN?

My whole life, my future and the future of mankind pivoted on this one single question...


"Indeehan?" I croaked, praying fervently that that was the COOL answer. Surely no-one would want to be an UDDER BOY!

"Okay then."

I was jubilant! I made it! I did it!! Whatever an indeehan was, I was going to be the BEST dang indeehan these boys have EVER seen! I skipped after the gaggle of boys... let the games begin!



My bounce was cut short when the boy in front abruptly spun round and glared at me: “What are you doing on my land, Indian?”

I froze momentarily, groping for an appropriate response.

“They cant speak English!” “They’re here to KILL us!” , one of the boys screeched dramatically.

I didn’t need any telling that this game has heated up, and something reeaaally exciting was about to happen.

Facing my new enemies, and so as to not raise any suspicion, I very slowly inched my head round.

With my eyes rolling in the sockets, I stole a furtive glance over my shoulder: I wanted to see how many of “us” there were:

Behind me, the street stretched into sad, deserted emptiness...



“There’s HUNDREDS of them!”

“Run for cover!”

“BANG! BANG! BANG!”

Boys scattered in every direction in utter mayhem, falling over each other as they ducked behind trees and shrubs, clearing the street within seconds, shooting wildly as they did so!


Ooohhhhh I get it! I’ve seen this game before!!


I unholster my gun, aim at a boys head poking out from behind a tree and fire in turn: “Bang! “Bang! Bang!”

Silence.

“No, STUPID!”

“Indians don’t have guns. You have to DIE when we shoot you!”



Thus started my mastery of the genre of faking death in every grotesque, horrorsome and bloody manner conceivable.

I took to being a tribe of Indians like a duck to water:

On a daily basis, I contorted, convulsed, spasmd, gurgled death rattles, bloodcurdling screams, collapsed, twitched and foamed spit from my mouth – often receiving direction from my murderers:

“No! I shot your head off! Walk like a zombie with no head!”

Overnight, our street became home of the toughest, meanest rabble of Indian killing marksmen this side of the Mississippi – Some were so good, that they could shoot me dead, before they’d even turned a corner. All it took to fell me, was shouting Bang! Bang! on the approach and by the time they got within line of sight, I’d be writhing and spitting in my final death throes.

Needless to say – I rapidly rose up the ranks to “most favoured playmate”, an honour which I could easily orchestrate to flow over into other “boys only” domains.

I had stumbled on the key that swung the door of a ‘man’s world’ wide open to me:

Play like a boy, but never, ever beat them at their own game.