In the night of the 21st July 1969 a man stamped noisily up the narrow stairs of the small council house, which was situated next to a yard at the end of a long hill which led up to Trinity Church.

“I’m not gonna tell you again! Get up and come down stairs. We’re not gonna miss it because of you!” came the muffled voice from the bottom of the stairs.

Morris’ father was small and thin and had a bad posture. He looked beaten and spiteful, but his spitefulness was only something he had caught off of Morris’ mother.

She had a way of infecting, twisting and tearing people, screwing them up like pieces of paper, unravelling them again and laughing at the wrinkles and creases.

How many times had she taken Morris into the kitchen, closed the door, turned on the radio so nobody could hear them and turned her head to him whilst standing at the sink, looking at him slyly and whispering as to how useless his father was, how he had never made anything of himself, how he would end up in an asylum like his own dad.

Morris was laying in bed. He was 4. It was cold. The curtains were wide open, the bedroom door was closed. The full moon cast it’s smile over the cupboards. His father opened the door and stuck his head in.
“Come on, get up! I’m not going to tell you again!”
He slammed the door, Morris could hear him plodding down the stairs. He got up slowly, wearing his pyjamas. The top bunk bed was empty. his brother was already downstairs. He pulled a chair up to the window, climbed up on it and lent on the window sill with his elbows. He looked up at the moon, smiled, then waved.

“Morris! I’m not going to tell you again!” – came his father’s muffled voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Morris rubbed his eyes, took a last look at the moon, jumped down off the chair and put on his slippers. The moon still lit the room.
The living room was not large. The walls wore cheap, tasteless prints, scattered over dirty flowered wallpaper. The furniture was plain and boring. It all presented his mother’s futile attempt of trying to make it look comfortable.

Morris’ mum and brother were cuddled together under a blanket, both holding mugs of tea and starring at the black and white television. His father sat in an armchair, his legs crossed. He was just pouring the spilt tea from his saucer back into the mug as Morris entered the room. There was an ashtray on the arm of the chair with a smoking cigarette in it.
„Wanna cuppa tea boy?“ his father asked, looking over at him as he came in.

„He’s too late now, should have come down earlier, you told ‘im enough times. Not gonna miss it ’cause of ‘im“ his mother said without taking her eyes from the television.

Morris sat down on the floor, rubbed his eyes with both hands and looked up at the television. The moon stared back at him from the screen. The man in the moon looked down at him. He smiled at it, but nothing happened, the moon didn’t respond. Morris didn’t understand.
Indistinguishable voices could be heard, crackling, distant, blurred, snow pictures, white suites, machines, stars…what were they doing to his only friend?

Morris jumped up, ran upstairs into the bedroom, climbed on the chair, lent on the window sill and stared up at the moon. It looked as it always had, there were no men up there, Morris knew that. If there had been, his moon would have told him.

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