Trike of the light

One of my first memories is of manouvering around the carpark at the flats where we lived in Hamilton near Glasgow in my red pedal car. I am told I could reverse park instictively which my mother found irritating; she was learning to drive at the time and had to think before deciding which way to turn the wheel when backing into the gap between two vehicles.

Aged three and now we live in quite a big house in the country. Whilst my parents sip their gin and tonics in the porch, they time my circuits of the property; I have now upgraded to a tricycle.

Memories of this time include my mum decorating a bedroom for my soon-to-be-born brother, I can remember the smell of the paint and the transfers of fairies that were applied to the furniture.

My dad came home in a blue Fiat 500 one day, a present for my mum, we all drove off to Biggar in it. Later my grandfather had decided to make me a kite and I think there were five of us in that little car, (the smell of which is still clear in the space in my head between my eyes), heading into a nearby town, ostensibly to buy the necessary materials (bamboo and brown paper). A hitchhiker put out his thumb, grandad sqeezed his arm out of the passenger window and returned the gesture; that might have been the first joke I ever got. Early memories of achieving a meditational state, are of me in the passenger seat of that car, in front of my toy steering wheel. As the Fiat had a metal dash, the wheel stuck on perfectly with its big sucker. It had a horn in the middle, an indicator projected from one side of the plastic steering column and a gear stick from the other. Perhaps my engagement with this pretence was such that it appeared real to people other than just me. I wasn't a child who wildly sawed at the wheel as I gazed out of the side window or attempted to extricate some soggy biscuit from my crotch; this was serious and I drove the road as I found it. I remember my mum momentarily wondering what to do with her own set of controls as I announced that I would be taking the next left off a long straight road that we were whiring along. Better still was the feeling when I was allowed to steer my dad's car up the drive, I could feel the power.

When that kite was finished, it weighed more than than a medium sized dumb bell. It might have actually flown in that storm we had in 1967 (or there abouts). I remember being allowed to sleep in my parents bed. My dad went out to check on something and reported that he could not stand; such was the wind. The next morning the green house was smashed in a pile, about 30 yards from its concrete base.

There were woods in the garden. I used to venture in sometimes. Once I emerged from there; crying. I had seen an animal which must have been about 8 feet tall, I clearly remember it's huge mouth and eyes. My mum collected me in her arms and on the way to the house we encountered Mr Lamby, the gardener, who wanted to know what all the fuss was about. He suggested that I might have seen a frog. This was the first time I experienced outrage.......a frog......that size!?

My mum and I would walk into the village with my brother (smelling lovely like a baby does) in his old fashioned pram. We would pick fruit from the side of the road; have you ever tasted a perfect gooseberry? Mm mm. Every so often a van would appear at the top of the drive, there was a grocer one and a butcher one, those really had distictive aromas. For some reason when I think of those, I make a connection in my mind to those little coloured canvas shoes kids wore then, I think I can see mine negotiating the metal steps at the back.

One November the 5th, right about the spot where those vans used to park, my dad was crouched over a box of Standard Fireworks. I was sitting on the upstairs hall window-ledge peering out into the darkness with my mum. My dad could be seen sprinting away from the potential pyrotechnics and there followed a disappointingly long haitus. We were eventually rewarded for our patience by a short but intense display of sparks. I learnt that that's what happens if you drop your lit cigarette in a box of fireworks.