By Liz Frost
I’m about 5. I’m looking down at my chubby hands dismantling a Lego creation and they’re plump and
smooth, unlike the 30 year old hands I’m so used to seeing. My skin feels soft and clammy and my
hair is still the fluffy baby kind that, in normal time, has long since gone, replaced by a wiry mess that’s
prone to frizz in the summer heat. It’s
Summer now and I’m out in the garden with what looks like the remains of a mud pie about to set hard
beside me. There’s a worm trapped in the dried muddy mess, it will most definitely die like that. I
remember this day. It was the day my Dad tried to teach me to ride a bike and I failed.
This has happened to me a few times. The first time I went back was on my 20th birthday. I was out
celebrating with friends at a local restaurant when it happened. I’d just enjoyed a King Prawn starter
and I nipped off to the loo before the main course arrived. No sooner had I gone through the cubical
door, there I was speeding through a freak time vortex and finding myself in the middle of the school
playground playing skip-rope with my two best friends. Suddenly I was 8. They didn’t have a clue I’d
really just turned 20. They carried on turning the rope regardless of my blundering forgetful efforts
and then we all went off to the canteen together to eat lunch, until my original self resumed charge and
I went back to being 20 again.
I have no idea why this happens, but it’s my best kept secret. The boyfriend I had when I was 18 had
an unexpected visit from my 24 year old self and thought I’d suddenly become a sex goddess
overnight. My parents delighted at my maturity and the cleanliness I had suddenly adopted, only to be
disappointed by the return of my teenage self. Teachers marvelled at my high test scores only to give
the real me a detention the following week suspecting me of cheating. Admittedly, sometimes it didn’t
pay off. One question that haunts me is, when I’m occupying my younger self, where does my younger
self go to?
I imagine the 16 year old me suddenly finding herself driving my car, whilst I sit her GCSEs. I try not to
think about it.
The best days to turn up on are those where I made a huge mistake the first time round. Like when I
dumped Ryan Samuels at high school. The following day I realised what an error I’d made and it was
too late because he’d asked out my friend Sally, just to spite me. At the time I watched them for a year
and a half feeding each other in the school canteen and holding hands on the way home from school.
It killed me. I’d give anything to go back to that day now and put things right.
He wasn’t the best looking guy in the school, but the reason I was attracted to him was because he
made me laugh on a regular basis. We’d be sitting in Maths and he’d draw stupid pictures on my
pencil case that would have me in stitches or on the bus home from school, he’d mimic driver so
perfectly I would double over in fits of giggles. The only reason Sally went out with him was because
she knew it would make me hurt. The only reason Ryan went out with Sally was to make me Jealous.
Ryan and I were best friends. Inseperable. Soulmates. It was a terrible mistake.
My Father is calling me and I answer in an alien high pitched voice which surprises me.
“Coming!” I say back as my five year old self and wander up to the house reluctantly. I know he’s
about to teach me to ride the new shiny bike that awaits in the kitchen and I know how I’m going to fail
miserably and not learn how to do it until I’m 23, but I’m still excited. There’s a small part of me that
believes I can do it differently this time and the desire to please my father overrides my five year old
fear.
When I enter the house I know to wipe my feet and I know to hide the shock of seeing my parents
young again. It has become second nature to me now. I’m looking at the gleaming red bike my Father
has bought. There are multi-coloured ribbons tied to the handlebars so that when I ride it, they fly out
prettily. I remember so well and it’s propped against the kitchen counter waiting for me to fail. I blink
back a tear that’s creeping into my left eye.
“Shall we teach you how to ride it?” says my father exitedly.
“Yeah!” I say with a strange 5 year old noise, trying to sound enthusiastic. My mother is clutching her
tea towel to her and smiling at me. I look back at her apologetically.
As we wheel the bike out onto the tarmac, I think back to this day the first time round. The fear; the
sweat; smiling so as not to disappoint my Father and my poor white knees, expecting the worst. I
remember climbing aboard terrified of its shiny newness and holding my breath as we started off along
the tarmac, my Father holding onto the seat behind me saying “I’ve got you, I’ve got you”. Then me
looking back to see him far behind, not holding the seat at all, but projecting his voice from afar. I
looked down in horror, at the wheels speeding beneath me and the ribbons flying. I was going along
by myself and I couldn’t do it! I felt the bike wobble and I knew it was all over. Before I knew it, I was
on the floor with bloody knees, the mangled bike lying beside me.
I approach the bike with trepidation and climb aboard, amazed at how easily my five year old body
mounts the leather seat this time. My chubby feet find the pedals and I brace myself. My Dad is
behind me smiling a huge toothy grin. The same one I mirrored back in the kitchen. Now my face
sports a grimace and my whole body tenses.
“I’m sorry” I say to him, unable to help myself, but he doesn’t hear, he’s already pushing me along the
hard tarmac excitedly and telling me he’s got me.
I know he hasn’t got me. He’s going to let me go in a few moments, and I’m going to fall. I know it.
As I glide along, my feet find a familiar rhythm on the pedals, even though I’m five, my 30 year old mind
knows what to do. You never forget how to ride a bike, it’s true. I’m pedalling myself along and I can
hear my Dad’s disjointed voice shouting from afar. “I’ve got you”. I know he hasn’t, but it doesn’t
matter this time. I’m doing it all by myself. I’m laughing. Laughing in my five year old voice with sheer
joy.
Later I drink milk, eat garibaldi biscuits and rejoice my victory. Tired out, I slip beneath the covers of
my five year old’s bed and welcome the cool familiar feel of the pillow against my face. I’ll sleep well
tonight, knowing that when I wake up I’ll be 30 again, but somehow I’ll be different.
Morning comes with a jolt and even though I realise I’m in my own flat, I check my body just in case. My
spindly legs and rounded tummy have been replaced with my familiar 30 year old curves. Something’s
different I realise. But I’m not sure what. Then there’s a knock at the door and I wrap myself in my
dressing gown to answer it.
“Who is it?” I say into the intercom.
“Hi” He says simply.
Something about his voice sounds familiar.
“Ryan?” I say.
Same sweet voice, just 30 instead of 16.
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