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…well, that will be a surprise for later.
My three tips for thumb-sucking are displayed on the screen now:
1. The perfect thumb should be cold and wet and smell of Brussels sprouts.
2. A dry thumb is just a step toward a wet one.
3. A warm thumb is the price you pay for sucking
Thumb-sucking cannot be rushed. A snatched thumb-suck is a wasted one. Better to wait until you have the time to invest in the activity. They say the place to ‘suck-a-thumb’ is in bed, on your own at sleeping time, so as to be polite and not annoy people. I don’t suck-a-thumb where people can see me. Well, only you and my parents. Besides, what’s the point if
there’s someone to talk to? You sound dumb talking with your thumb in your mouth, and don’t you look stupid!
My dad likes to call me stupid whenever I suck my thumb. This doesn’t stop me, and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he thinks it does. Given that he is a stupid farmer that knows nothing, and I have read all of Shakespeare, all of a Dickens, and all of the Bible, as well as the AA Book of British Mammals and all the maps we have in the house, and I have a computer, it’s funny that he calls me stupid. If I am that stupid, I wouldn’t have found out all the important stuff I have found out on the internet. For example, Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, got his lines wrong. My father does not know that, as it has nothing to do with pigs. If the first person on the moon was a pig then he would know it. He thinks he knows everything. My father knows that sucking your thumb means you are a baby. He says he never ever sucked his thumb, not even as a baby, not even in the womb. Although how he knows that is anyone’s guess
Anyway, back to the tips. The first one is the most important. A new thumb is dry and tepid, but an old thumb, soaked in saliva, out of the mouth for several seconds, will be cold, damp, and smelling of Brussels sprouts.
Here in Yorkshire, we eat Brussels sprouts at Christmas. Here on the farm, the pigs love them too. They get all the messed-up ones; we eat the good ones. Dad says Brussels sprouts are good for you, unlike thumb-sucking. Brussels sprouts make you strong, unlike thumb-sucking. Thumb-sucking is more than stupid; it’s evil, he says.
This Christmas, while we were eating dinner and I was thumb-sucking between mouthfuls of turkey and roast potatoes, Dad was shouting ‘Sampson, you are a stupid baby’ so ferociously I got frightened and confused and, thinking I was biting into a nice buttery Brussels, I bit into my thumb. Well, it didn’t hurt much, but blood poured down my wrist onto Mum’s Christmas cloth, into my plate, all over the place. Dad began screaming stuff I can’t say on this video. Mum was sponging the Christmas cloth with her napkin, picking out the blood-soaked parsnips from my plate and telling me to go and wash my hands. She was crying. At the kitchen sink I realised I had actually bitten off a piece of my thumb so I spat it into a tissue to keep it. We finished without saying another word. Once I had finished the Christmas pudding, while Dad slept in front of the TV and Mum washed up, I savoured the bit of thumb preserved in the tissue.
I had bitten through a bit just under the pad. This proved to be a lucky accident. Closer to the nail, all I would have produced would have been a blood-blackened nail and we wouldn’t be here now. I had no hesitation in popping the fragment into my mouth. It seemed so familiar, like a single grain of rice pudding and jam left over from tea. At first, I sucked. This was exquisite. The familiar thumb taste was now laced with one less familiar, somewhere between soil and sweat, between beetroot and plums, and, as I chewed, a texture neither too firm nor too soft. I swallowed, and a peculiar calm descended on me. I knew from the Bible that this was a religious experience, something that would change my life.
Needless to say, the pleasure was beyond words, even Shakespeare’s words. I was addicted.
Since Christmas, I have developed my taste. I have stopped sucking my thumb but continue biting it. My parents are delighted. I explain my gloved right hand as a means of dissuading
me from relapsing and a crucial step toward conquering my addiction. Dad has stopped calling me stupid and Mum has stopped crying. They are both happy.
But that can’t be right.
I promised a surprise, and here it comes!
I hold up my gloved hand to the camera. I offer it to you all, all the suck-a-thumbs of the world, all the cool boys with their cigarettes, all the mums and dads swearing and cursing their silly baby boys, all the kittens, the babies at breast, to myself and my thumb in the dark in the womb.
This little piggy went to market – little finger. This little piggy stayed at home – ring finger. This little piggy had sliced bread – middle finger. This little piggy had none – first finger.
And this little piggy went wee wee wee all the way home! (Sampson bites his thumb off.)