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A few days ago                                                                                                        by Les Lea                                                            

I stretched, yawned and tried to rub the sleep from my eyes as a slowly woke up. I wasn’t sure why but things felt different. I snuggled back down to try and defer actually getting up for a few more minutes but there was something niggling at the back of my mind. What was it?

I eased the bedding down and I was wearing pyjamas... I haven’t worn pyjamas for years and these are for a little kid so...?

Actually, they felt strangely comforting, soft stretchy cotton that seemed like an old friend. However, as I wriggled a little more I could feel there was something further down. Pulling the sheet away I could see that my jammie bottoms were puffed out quite a bit, the yielding material was dragged into a ‘V’ shape magnifying what was underneath and I became aware of exactly what it was that felt so ‘different’.

I ran my hand over the cotton bulge and could feel the slinky padding hugging my lower reaches. I drew my hand away in shock... just what the hell had happened to me?


A few days ago I received an email that said I’d won £3.5 million on the lottery. I knew it was a hoax, on the same scale as the African General who wants my banking details so he can deposit a vast sum in my account for some spurious reason.

I clicked delete.

Even though I knew I’d deleted it when I returned to my email it was still there. I read it again and it definitely said I’d won £3.5 million on the lottery. I re-read it a third time but on this occasion it said I COULD win £3.5 million if I played the lottery and it even had the numbers written out that I should use.

This was strange because, although I’d played the lottery when it first started, using a selection of birthdays and ‘lucky numbers’, I’d never so much as won a penny. However, and I had no idea how this scam worked, the numbers I read on the email were the same numbers I’d used all those years ago... and I’m talking like twenty years back.

I wasn’t going to be sucked into the lottery again so pressed delete.

Two minutes later it popped up again, only this time the numbers had changed and I was told, if an email can tell you anything, that these were winning numbers for next week and I’d definitely win £3.5 million AT LEAST.

For the rest of the afternoon, every time I returned to my mail, the message had reappeared but the numbers hadn’t changed.

Although I knew it was a scam I couldn’t let it go. That night I had the most vivid of dreams that I’d won a huge amount of money (I had no idea how much but it was millions) and my life was so much more fun. For a guy in middle age, with few friends, few opportunities and even few chances of advancement in my dead-end job, the freedom my dream presented was glorious. So, come the morning and decided if the email was still there I’d invest in a lottery entry.

I followed the link, used my credit card to secure the ridiculous (but hopeful) investment and used the numbers provided. Up came the information that on the Saturday night draw, there was £28 million that was definitely going to be won and I was thanked for my entry.


Meanwhile, work didn’t get any better but at least the email had enabled me to dream of luxury I couldn’t afford but was sure I’d enjoy given the chance. It was silly I know, but as the weekend approached I was getting more and more excited about the draw because you could watch it live online.

My Saturday nights usually follow a pretty unexciting formula of pizza and a few beers, whilst enjoying a movie or listening to the albums I’d collected since I was young. I’d slip on my headphones and happily sink back in time to when each song brought back a memory; a gig I’d seen, a TV programme I’d watched or a blockbuster I’d sat transfixed by at the local Odeon.

Ahhh, nostalgia isn’t what it used to be... it’s actually better, well, for me anyway.

Guess what... I won £7 million.


I mean, this bed isn’t mine. Well, it is, well something similar (though not the same) as the one I had as a kid. Also, I’ve never had a Paws Patrol duvet cover or a bed that crinkles when you move. I could now feel the waterproof sheet over my mattress as I took in more and more. The wallpaper was all Paws Patrol... someone must have had a fetish about this... whatever it was... I presume a TV programme for kids.

Oh, that’s what these images are on my pyjamas... more Paws Patrol.

This is stupid. I’m forty-five years old so... but the mirror on the closet door showed I wasn’t... staring back was a five or six year old little kid. I looked confused but snug in my PJs but there was no escaping the padding.

How? Why?

“Morning sunshine.” A woman with a South African accent walked into my room all cheery, drawing back the curtains before coming over to brush the hair from my forehead and giving me a morning kiss. “Exciting day for my little sunbeam,” she smiled encouragement, “but let’s have breakfast first and then I’ll get you ready for your first day at school.”

Loads of things, confused things, were whirling around in my head and I wanted to say something ... mainly “who the hell are you?” but all that came out was a childish “Yes mama.”


She reached out her long elegant hand, softly took hold of mine and helped me from my bed. I rustled a little as I walked but it seemed normal as we wondered into the kitchen.

“Good morning our clever little student.” I presume this was papa (?), who had a similar twang, was smiling and looking cheerfully over his morning paper.

A baby girl, around two, whom I suspect was my sister and she just gurgled her “Hewwoo Stuud...” she failed to say student but beamed at me anyway.

I automatically smiled and replied ‘Howzit‘ and patted her giggling head.

A bowl was placed in front and cereal poured. As I ate my ‘parents’ were chatting enthusiastically about my first day of school in English but with quite a guttural accent. I had no idea who these people were but I was a little kid so they must be my parents.

“Did you sleep well Davy boya?” Papa was asking that accent extending a word.

I nodded but that padding around my groin told me that I’d at least wet it but, I assumed, if I wore it they must have been expecting me to use it so...

However, I still was trying to work out what was going on because when I went to bed last night I was definitely a forty-five year old man, with an awful job at a company finance, a mortgage and... oh yes.... hadn’t I just come into some money?

Was that a dream?

Was this a dream?

Yes, that’s what it must be because I’d been asked a question online hadn’t I.

“When were you at your happiest?”


It had been a question that went alongside some of the info that winning a huge sum of money entailed. I assume they wanted to assess that I wouldn’t go off the rails with such a huge amount and that I was psychologically equipped to handle this fortune. As I’d never won anything before I wasn’t sure if these questions were reasonable or not but, as I was still euphoric about all that money, wasn’t that bothered about the morality or intrusion of such questions.

I’d mentioned that I was happiest when I’d taken some time out after school to do voluntary work overseas. I’d spent just over a year working in South Africa with aid workers and other volunteers rebuilding villages that had been devastated by fire and drought. I’d helped build a school, which had been emotional when I saw all the eager little kids from the area in their beige uniforms of short and shirt, flocking to be educated. It was one of my most gratifying moments.

On the back of that memory I also mentioned that I was also so excited about going to school when I was five. That first year was wonderful - all the friends I made, all the fun we had, all the great teachers who seemed to love us as much as our parents. It was such a lovely period of my childhood and had that euphoric feeling you wished lasted a lifetime.

It then asked, in what I thought was a very frivolous way, if I’d give my £7 million back if I could have those days back. Of course, in the same flippant vein, I replied I’d give everything for a return to a more loving time.


I looked up at my ‘parents’ and they were beaming with pride in having their son about to embark on his first day of school but I wondered why because these weren’t my actual parents. My actual father had left home when I was ten and died from TB seven years later. Mum remarried when I was thirteen, it was all OK but I got a job and left home when I was twenty. It was the job I still had and one I didn’t particularly like but it paid OK and better than no job at all.

My fiancée decided at the wedding chapel she couldn’t go through with it and so, for the last fifteen years, I’d cut myself off from socialising and kept myself to myself. So, who wouldn’t crave a more loving time? Those queries had certainly opened me up a bit and perhaps it was the bottle of celebratory champagne I’d quaffed all to myself when I answered those questions that have led to...

I looked at the date on ‘papa’s’ paper – it was NOW, not the date when I was five years old. How? what? why? erm... ohhhh!


I finished my bowl of cereal and mama smiled in a most loving way. “OK sweet-potato, let’s get you ready for your first day of school... exciting isn’t it?”

A wriggled in my seat well aware of the soaked padding I was sitting in and then I remembered something more. When I had first started school I still wore nappies. I hadn’t mastered the potty at night and I’d worn a nappy for the first year in class. I was the only one but the teachers took it in their stride at every break to check I was dry, or change me if needed.

Mama stripped me out of my Paws Patrol jammies, slipped me out of the wet padding, wiped me down and doused me in lotion and powder before applying a colourful thick disposable.

“These are special fun pants for our little student,” she beamed (she was a very happy and pleasant lady whoever she was) to absorb more so you’ll need less changes by your lovely teachers... isn’t that nice?” Her accent wasn’t quite as thick as papa’s.

“Yes mama, thanks mama.” I said as she opened up the plastic pants for me to step into then shuffled them up and over my special multi-coloured padding.

“You’re going to have a wonderful time sweetheart, all those new friends... and papa says he’s so proud of you... we all are.” She tapped my padded bottom, went to the closet and pulled out my new uniform I was going to be so proud to wear. It meant I was growing up. The khaki shirt slipped over my head followed by my new matching shorts, which like the plastic pants, she shuffled over my padding.

Hold on. I’m forty-five so I haven’t worn... erm... deeerrr... umm...

Except, my old self was retreating in my memory as the prospect of starting that first day of school arrived. Photos were taken by my proud parents of me in a uniform and clutching a small Paws Patrol backpack. I guess I was a fan of Paws Patrol.

My bedroom had not been my bedroom, the house hadn’t been my house, my parents hadn’t been my parents, except... everything was. So now I was ready for school, wearing shorts, shirt and no shoes, I wondered what else wasn’t mine but was. As the door opened, and the blast of hot air came flooding in, I realised I was about to start school in the South African bush. Not quite the more tribal area where I’d help re-build the school, this was rural but still urban. There were quite a few other kids my age all marching towards a low brick building further down the road – Nelson Mandela Laerskool.

I excitedly greeted Menzi also starting today but Neo was still clutching her mother crying. I had no idea who these kids were but apparently I did. I spoke a welcome in Afrikkans and greeted others in English it looked like my school was going to be very diverse. It also looked like I wasn’t the only one going barefoot as we first timers nervously stood around wondering what we were supposed to do.

Pretty soon a host of teachers came along, smiling and welcomed us all to our new class. It was at that moment when I apprehensively (and comprehensively) filled my luier.


“Well hallo Davy.” There were other greetings going on in English, Afrikkans, Zulu and several other local accents, as each new child was welcomed to their first class at their first school.

“Hallo Miss.”

She made herself known, “Miss Mbeki.”

“Hallo Miss Mbeki,” I replied with a nervous smile but happy to be starting school. It meant I was now a big boy.

“I’ll change you once we get everyone settled.” She whispered in my ear so no one else heard. I wasn’t sure how she knew but I suppose adults know these things which are a mystery to a... hold on a minute... I’m not a kid I’m, erm, a fort, thir, twen, erm, no, I’m five?


With the instruction to ‘Always Play Nicely’ echoing in our heads, we all went and found things to play with. Friends were sought out and new friends made as toys were enjoyed in the hot morning air. Meanwhile, I was gently guided to the back of the building where the toilets and changing rooms were.

“OK Davy, you’re our first customer of the day,” Miss Mbeki smiled encouragement, “so, let’s get that wet thing off and you into something drier.”

It didn’t seem to bother her I still wore aluier... I mean a nappy... we were supposed to mainly speak English but there were so many other languages, we all slipped into versions of our original tongue at times.

Off came my shorts, plastic pants and ‘special’ nappy.

“These are nice and thick Davy, your mama really looks after you.”

A thorough wipe around followed by an equally comprehensive dousing in cream and powder was the first of many such treatments I’d be receiving in future. The replacement nappy felt even thicker but not as colourful. So, once everything was back in place and I was sent off to play, I couldn’t let that worry me. There was simply too much excitement to see and do in that playground.

“Seven million, seven million, seven...”

This thought was echoing around my head but had no idea what it might mean. I believed it was a number, and though I could count quite well seven million meant nothing special to me... yet it still was at the forefront of my head as we frolicked and amused ourselves.

It was a glorious day, so we spent most of it outdoors and I made loads and loads and loads of friends. I played with anyone and everyone and had a great time. So good in fact that I didn’t want to hurry home but mama was waiting at the gate and I excited ran into her loving arms.

“Mama,” I enthused, “it was the best day ever.”

She smiled and hugged me close and murmured. “So seven million well spent?”

Those words again but I had no idea what she was talking about but my nappy needed changing so I skipped, holding her hand, all the way back home.

“Sweetie, you’re soaked.”

I shrugged.

I’d never been happier or more content. I loved mama, papa, my little sis and the teachers and all my new friends and...

Mama kissed the top of my head as if she knew my thoughts and answered as she stroked my well-cushioned bottom.

“And we love our sweet little padded boy... so let’s make this day even better.”

She cleaned me up and put me in a similar colourful nappy to my little sister and left us to play together outside as she went to get snacks.

Sis had a special swing she liked so I pushed her on that to happy squeals. Eventually mama came out with a tray and we sat on the grass in the warm late afternoon air whilst I excitedly told her about my first day.

As I chatted animated by my own enthusiasm I rolled a ball between me and little sis. She giggled and, getting her co-ordination rolled it back as best she could. I was home, happy and content. I loved my family and they loved me... I couldn’t wait for school tomorrow.

Mama smiled at us both.

“I’ve been blessed with two of the cutest little sweethearts in the world.”

We giggled back and then hugged her.

She patted our padded bottoms. “Yes two little cuties I hope you always stay just as you are.”


They didn’t know it but ‘little sis’ had also won seven million on the lottery and had answered the same question as Davy. When the people in charge found two that had enjoyed their younger years so much and were prepared to exchange money for such a life – the trade was made and they became brother and sister who would stay just as they were for ever.

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