Light shines benignly upon a classic tableau. That is, the female in childbirth, decorating the airwaves with choice obscenities, surrounded by loving relatives, or at least photographs of loving relatives. The sole other respirator within that room of any importance is the midwife, halfway through husbanding the output of another group of children. Already propped in baskets in various poses of confused disarray are five ugly pink hell-dwarves, otherwise known as bouncing babies, though from the painful lower register bawling the children are emitting, few activities of a bouncing nature have been scheduled for this particular day. Their mother, seemingly attempting to harmonise her sonic emissions with her offspring, is just producing the sixth and fortunately final child of her excessively fruitful loins.
However, this harmony extends through the single window of this aforementionedly tiny room into the street outside, and echoes percussively from the architecture, which seems faintly taken back by this audacity. Audaciously, and perhaps not entirely coincidentally, another offspring has sprung forth from its personal womb in the street outside, not entirely hygenically, it must be said. And as this 'bino baby bawls, so do its baby brethren behind the bricks of the wall which the now sadly deceased mother of this child is propped against. Following the lines of the damaged fence to its correct point perspective, a personage can be seen approaching with a miscellaneous dog, possibly a terrier. Hearing the keening of the kid, this personage increases its pace until it reaches the child, and surveys the situation whilst the terrier, unregarded, defecates beneath the open window of the birth room. The personage, male, having cut the umbilical with a convenient breadknife he had about his person, notices the dog's somewhat unsavoury activities and thus the surrounding situation. If this tale were within the realms of fantasy, some form of illumination would appear above the personage's head. Since this tale is based firmly upon foundations of fact, this is not the case, unless one counts some miscellanous heavenly bodies suspended blindingly above him, in the furthest of far distance, and as that scope is quite ludicrous to comprehend, they will not be counted. However, whilst the dog, having lost interest in the contents of its bowels, examines the crimson pavement with a certain pensive concern, the dog's owner lifts the whitetopped baby from its current domicile upon the concrete, and thrusts it through the open window. Safely, the baby lands in an unused container with a thump, as the midwife removes the sixth child of the first mother (pay attention) with the panache of a conjurer, and the assistance of a pair of large forceps. As it is, this is a beginning.
The aforementioned heavenly spheres attempt their allotted task of shining brightly, with some degree of success, although with the speed that time is required to pass for this tale to begin to happen more, they appear to be blinking, enough to dazzle
To dazzle into the eyes of the white-haired child, who you may remember was born numerous flickers ago, or about 4 years, if one wishes to be vaguely specific. The mother of this extensively pale progeny, it must be said, was a little confused by the appearance of a sectuplet as opposed to a sextet, but reasoned, as one does, that somehow her attention had wandered and the child had popped out whilst she was examining the interior decoration, or searching her vocabulary for a particularily vehement exhortation. As for the midwife, it would, for the purposes of financial gain, be in her interests to keep quiet, for it is her general practice to charge per head, and an extra head means an extra kitchen appliance or similar denotator of status among her midwife clique. Ergo, our mother is blessed with a multitude of loin-fruit, and additionally something of an incentive to relocate. And relocate she does, choosing pastoral delight over gritty urban realism, or similar, sensibly, she sallys to Norfolk, where in this day and age new blood is certainly a commodity, and the new blood, though not as homogenous as an onlooker might expect, is hence occupant in a tiny hamlet forty-five minutes west of Great Yarmouth. With all the Will in the world, though, one still cannot expect all to proceed with total clemency.
So then. A closer examination of our subject matter reveals that dominant within this family, who we shall dub Lidduk, are the genes for black hair, brown eyes, and a propensity to shy from the skies, namely that the Lidduk's are of a somewhat diminutive nature. The infantish interloper, however, has hair of white, eyes of pink, and a disturbing habit to think. Too much, it seems, because as soon as Alex, as he was dubbed by his adoptive parent, became conscious of himself:
// the world moves for ME it moves for ME towards it moves for ME towards drinkdrink moves for ME over and reflection is ME reflection is me, I am reflection I am Alex? //
he also became conscious of his difference from his brothers and sisters. And it must be said, this concerned young Alex, as it concerned his mother. Why, she could be often found to mutter to herself, why does young Alex not eat like a piranha gone unfed six months, like his squat siblings? For on the Lidduk land, our Alex ate little at all, slept a great deal and left the house only in moonlight. And you may perceive that the moon is flickering. This signifies the passage of time. Time.
"Alex! it is time to get up!" shouts Mrs Lidduk, forever hopeful in the face of apathy, one of her more admirable features. Alex remains quiscient. He ponders. It is his birthday, Alex today is survived his life for fourteen years so far, and much time has been spend pondering. He sees little reason to change his activities, for venturing from his room provokes quantities of abuse from his brothers and sisters, who, as he never sees them, only rising at night and when the moon is up, have become strangers to him. He slides further into the covers, adjusting his position, and shuts his eyes.