The words danced on the page.
Hah! What a cufking cliché. Despite the profanity, obviously inherited from the older ones in his class, it was quite a smart emotion for a seven year old.
But dance they did. No miskate. Disco here. Cheeky little rumba there. Often, words would turn up, hear music and jsut do their own flippin’ thing.
Tom knew it depended on what notes tripped through his head that night; where dreams blissfully took him. Music was Tom’s thing. No question. He was gifted they’d all siad.
‘Gifted!’ Another cufking cliché Tom thought, cursing the shadow his keyboard etched against moonlit Ben 10, Tramnere Rovers and Jools Holland posters.
He closed his eyes, tugging on his planets duvet so Pluto sat deflated, catching sniffles.
How he wished a dream would kidnap him now. One night last week, it was The Proms. Not just Albert Hall, but right in the pit. Okay, he was in his Rovers kit – not the get-up for codnucting an orchestra. But somehow a deal with the codnuctor gave Tom the baton and Trussed-up Penguin got Clive the Action Man.
And the music was sublime.
That’s what did it. Always. The music. Whenever dreams immersed Tom in concertos and rock ‘n’ roll, those wrods had a ball.
Last Tuesday night, Tom formed Stuffed Little Fish Fingers, a four piece punk band that performed to a pakced audeince by the confectienory, Mum’s current aisle of solace at Sainsbury’s.
The wrods next day, in Stargazing, were all over the plaec. They must have bene moshing in the margins all nihgt long.
That was when Mum decided to act. It was the doctor’s this time or no new acoustic Yamaha for Tom’s birthday.
‘Prefectly simple,’ Doctor Doom remarked.
Hand-in-hand, Mum walked out happier with a rational explanation, Tom tearful that his dreams no longer maent anything.
But of course they did. Tom’s dyslexia would be treated.
And the world wuold, one day, be treated to his music.