Off The Cuff: The child with the man in his eyes

We meet once a day, usually, my neighbour Johnny and I. He is four and I am his senior by four decades and more. More the pity, because I can't shake this feeling that, given the chance, we'd like to exchange places, be each other. At least, I have a week's worth of evidence to show that Johnny wants to 'get there' in a hurry.

I'm not so sure what tabs Johnny's been keeping on me, but if you ask him he just might say 'uncle Kevin is my best friend' and that would be the clincher, clear proof that I've made this regression successfully. He calls me 'uncle', though we're not related. Just Indian politeness. Anyway, this is the low down I have on him.

Saturday: Johnny is whizzing around the courtyard, making buzzing noises. I think he is a bee looking for a flower. He says he's a car looking for a petrol station. He finds one. It is his cousin Carol.

She is playing a rehearsed double role, that of the petrol station and the attendant. She has a mug of water in which is a slender tube. Johnny parks, puts the tube into his mouth and 'fills up'. Then he whizzes past me, shouting, 'Bye, uncle'.

Sunday: Johnny's seated on his doorstep, pouring milk into a saucer. The stray kitten is lapping up the unexpected fare with gluttonous delight. Johnny's dad is at work, his mum is resting. I want to get my own cat, uncle, he says, topping up the saucer. My mummy says only when I get bigger. He means older, but he's Johnny.

Monday: Johnny's seated in the shade, in a red plastic chair. He's drawing. That's lovely, I say, who is it? My teacher, he replies, her name is Miss Daisy. Your teacher has a moustache, I ask.

Johnny thinks about that. He has an eraser, but he decides it's easier to rename the person. That's my dad, he says. He's come to school to tell my teacher Johnny's a good boy.

Uncle, he says, when I grow up I want to be a pincibell. Principal, I correct him. Why a principal, Johnny? Because, he says, the teachers are frightened of him.

Tuesday: Johnny's a bit cranky. He's hunched over, trying unsuccessfully to tie his shoelaces. I show him how. He smiles his thanks then says, uncle when I'm big I'm going to wear boots like my daddy. Boots have no laces.

Wednesday: Johnny's sick today. He's the patient. His cousin Carol is playing doctor and peering down his throat using the light of a pencil torch. Then she makes him lie on the cool cement, placing a handkerchief on his forehead.

There are ice cubes in the handkerchief. Would you like to be a doctor like Carol when you grow up, Johnny, I ask. He says no uncle, I want to be the sick boy. Then I don't have to go to school.

Thursday: Johnny's really fallen ill, and the doctor's given him an injection. I pop in to say hi Johnny, how are you enjoying being a sick boy, and he says, uncle I want to be a doctor.

Friday: Johnny's day of rest; and mine. It's the one day we ought to run into each other often, but we don't. He's made a complete recovery and is out somewhere spending quality time with his parents. When I think of him, I cannot help but wonder at the paradox of perception.

There is he, peering through my foggy vision and perceiving, clearly, all the things he wants to be when he grows up; and there am I, looking into those shiny, beady, mischievous eyes and spotting, in the hazy distance, my own happy childhood.

Good luck, Johnny.