There’s a ride at EuroDisney called Star Tours – a Star Wars themed flight simulator, designed to make you feel like you’re on an out-of-control spaceship.
Aged 8, I did not like Star Tours. No sooner had I fastened my seatbelt than I got the feeling in the pit of my stomach that I really wasn’t going to enjoy the next five minutes. I nudged my dad.
‘Dad, I want to get off.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t get off. Look, nobody else is being silly and panicking like you are.’
Just at that moment, the doors slid open and three Japanese tourists stood up and left. The doors slid shut again, leaving me even more panicked than before.
But this isn’t a post about fairground rides – it’s a post about feeling the same fear in recent weeks.
In the early days of the blog, I wrote a lot about the boy and very little of what I wrote was positive. More recently, I’ve written more upbeat stuff about him, and more recently still, he’s begun to be replaced by more posts on erotica and other things I find hot (or not.)
I never intended for him to be identifiable, but some people have worked out who he is (from my position it’s hard to work out just how easy it is to do this). He responded by telling a handful more that my blog was about him, which made me very nervous indeed.
I’m a hypocrite. I want to be able to write about him, but I want to retain my anonymity and, when it does all end, I want to be completely free of him. At the moment we share a fair number of Twitter followers and some of my blog traffic comes via his. It’s not a situation that particularly favours the cold turkey approach.
And this week, that ending looks inevitable. I can’t explain why, exactly: just that I have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach all the time at the moment – that sense that something is about to go dreadfully wrong and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I want to get off.