'TOMORROW' SEEMS EVER CLOSER, 'YESTERDAY' SO VERY FAR AWAY...

The world famous NARDINI's

I took a little trip into the past not long ago and visited Largs and Millport for the first time since 1971.  It was an experience that I'm not quite sure how I feel about, nor am I sure whether my uncertainty is something I can adequately express.  The reason being that there was enough that was still recognizable to recapture glimpses of my past, but there had also been a few changes which somewhat prevented me from being able to fully immerse myself in yesteryear.  If I'd continued in a state of unawareness of present conditions, the place as it had been would have remained alive to me forever in the evergreen land of memory, but now, alas, I'm all too aware that things are no longer as they once were, which saddens me.

The new pier, built around five years ago

A new pier, the old war-mine and toy boating pond long-gone, the paddle-boat pond now used for remote-control model ships, the amusement arcade on the beach-front converted to other pursuits, the pier at Millport no longer visited by the ferry (thereby requiring a bus trip to and from the ferry's 'new' drop-off and pick-up point) - all this and more took a bit of the shine off my return to the holiday haunts of myself and my family back in the dim and distant days of 1968, '69 & '71.  I know that my parents and (separately, with pals) my brother returned at intervals, maybe only on day-trips, but those were experiences in which I never shared, and therefore my memories are time-locked into a specific period which remained inviolate - until recently, that is.

A stroll along the seafront

One thing that did please me was finding that the toy shop in Millport from which I had bought my STEVE ZODIAC and ZOONY The LAZOON friction-drive JETMOBILE in 1968, was still in business.  MAPES, it's called, and though it had closed for the day by the time I arrived, I could see from a glance through the windows that it seemed to be the same inside as it was in my day.  New stock obviously, but apparently the same general design and layout as on my visit 48 years previously.  The bus driver informed me that the gentleman who ran the shop back then (Mr. Mapes, I think it's safe to say) was his next-door neighbour and that the shop is still family-run today. 

The WAVERLEY - "goin' doon the watter"

So, in some ways a rewarding experience, but in others a disappointing one - and also a strange one.  For, despite the changes, it felt as if I'd last visited the place only yesterday or the day before.  I think that's because my mind jumped straight back to 1971, leap-frogging over all the events in between as if they hadn't yet happened.  Who knows, perhaps my memories of my recent visit will eventually recede, and allow my previous fond recollections to resurface in the ascendant once more; then Largs and Millport as they were will live again, allowing me to re-walk their seaside streets as I knew them when I was a boy.

In the meantime, here's a brief photographic tour through Largs and Millport as they are today.

The street (or one very much like it in close proximity) where
we stayed in 1971.  Our house was one with an upstairs room

   

Might even have been this one

Formerly the paddle-boat pond...

...now used for remote-control models

Adjoining flower area

Replica Viking longboat outside The VIKINGAR Centre

Amazing the folk you meet in Largs

And we're now in Millport...

...where peace and serenity reign

World's narrowest house.  No, I didn't know it was in Millport either

Mapes - where I bought my jetmobile toy in 1968...

...before hot-footing it back to the pier so as not to miss the ferry

The ROYAL GEORGE Hotel at the pier entrance

A medieval-looking church tower in the distance

The pier where the ferry once plied its trade - but
not for 40-odd years, according to the bus driver

And here's a little friend I brought back with me from Largs.  Cute little nipper, ain't he?

FOOTNOTE: It was an odd feeling to return from Largs to a different home than the one in which I was living back in '68, '69 & '71.  So associated is Largs with that particular time in my life, that I feel I should've gone back to my old house rather than the one in which I now stay, had my tea, then ran around the field I used to play in just over the road (which would've been difficult as it no longer exists). From my present dwelling I only ever holidayed in Blackpool, so had I revisited there instead, it would've felt more natural to return here. I now find myself curiously overwhelmed by the sensation that I'm out-of-step with my proper timeline.  Weird, eh?

A DOGGIE TALE (UPDATED)...

Zara circa December 1987

I was in the back garden filling my bird feeders the other day (as I do every day) and, coming in through the porch door, I spied scratches in the paintwork on the lower part of the exterior of the kitchen door in front of me.  I'd seen them before, naturally (many times), but so used to them am I now that they don't really register with me anymore, so why they did on this occasion I'm not quite sure.

The scratches had been caused by not just one dog, but three.  First, PRINCE, a mongrel we'd owned back in the early '70s that looked almost like a 'miniature' German Shepherd;  then TARA, an actual German Shepherd we owned from around the mid-'70s to 1986.  Finally, ZARA (another German Shepherd), who I'd bought to replace Tara when her time had come to an end earlier in the same year.

Zara circa 1987

What's interesting though, is that we'd moved away from this house in 1983, when Tara was eight and a half years old.  Tara died three years later, which is when I got Zara - and a year after that we moved back to our previous house (as regular readers will be tired of reading).

So what's interesting about that?  Well, the back door of that other house likewise has scratches from both Tara and Zara (made when they were seeking re-entry after being out in the garden 'watering' the plants), so both houses bear the marks of the same two dogs, but, in the case of this house, made with a four year gap between them.

It had occurred to me a few years back to fill in the scratches, but now I don't think I'll ever bother.  It's somehow oddly reassuring to see the 'footprints' of our three dogs still there after all this time (Zara died just over seventeen years ago), as fresh as when they were first made.  It's as if Prince, Tara and Zara are still around in some way.

Tara circa 1984

In fact, sometimes, when the wind is howling late at night, I seem to hear scratching at the back door and a muffled whining, as if something is seeking shelter from the elements.  My first thought, of course, is that my ears are playing tricks on me, but then my curiosity kicks in and I make my way through to the kitchen to check things out.

Whenever I open wide the door, however, only the inky blackness of the night beyond stares back at me - but the unmistakable smell of doggie fur hangs in the midnight air, as if I've only just missed a canine visitor or three wishing to remind me that their spirits yet linger out in the garden in case I should ever forget them. 

Never, my doggie pals - never.

******

Finally managed to find some pictures of Prince.  The original photos bear the printed date of July 1974 in the margins, but whether this is when they were taken or developed, I'm unsure.  If the latter, there wouldn't be much of a gap between the two occasions.  Alas, poor Prince.  We only had him for about a year-and-a-half.  In fact, as I've only got three photos of him, I might as well show them all here.

THE THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND...

The row of houses I once lived in

Ofttimes, when we move from one phase of our lives into another, we do so without a backward glance and with nary a thought to what we're leaving behind. For example, when I passed through the gate of my primary school for the final time, the fact that it was part of my life that was seemingly gone forever didn't, as far as I recall, perturb me in the slightest.  Soon, the classrooms and corridors of my secondary school became the familiar routine of my daily life, and I'm surprised, looking back today, at just how quickly and easily I adapted to the change without even realizing it.

The front gate of my old primary school - from the inside

It wasn't until I revisited my old primary a few years later, after having left secondary and joined the working classes, that it dawned on me that, in some mysterious, mystical, magical way, I was still connected to this aspect of my past and, in truth, had never really parted from it.  You see, not thinking about a thing is not the same as forgetting it.  The memory yet dwells in our sub-conscious; what we forget is the act of remembering - until, that is, something suddenly triggers the memory and causes it to erupt in our minds like an exploding firework.

The toilets - listen to that water trickle

I remember one day a few years back, when I suddenly caught a whiff of disinfectant and was instantly transported back to the toilets of my old primary school, where I often used to retire to during lessons for a bit of peace and quiet in the cool of the tiled environs, with the sound of gently-gurgling water emanating from the cubicle cisterns and porcelain urinals.  I felt such a soothing sense of tranquility there, and it was my very own 'fortress of solitude' for five minutes at a time whenever the confines of the classroom became too claustrophobic for me. (I assume my teacher simply thought I had a weak bladder.)

I can see my house from here.  The view from the classroom

I've previously mentioned how I felt when I revisited a former home for the first time since I'd moved 16 years before (which, at the time, was more than half my life away), and it was practically the same as when I'd left.  As I said in this post, it was as if the intervening years and two houses I'd lived in since were only a dream, and I still felt right at home there.  I'm sure we've all had the experience of meeting someone we haven't seen or thought of in years and it's just as if we saw them only a short while before.  That's how I felt on that particular day.

My former back garden - ah, happy memories

Well, I could labour the point I suppose, with example after example, but I'm sure you're all smart enough to catch my drift.  Things we may think we've left behind (whether or not, at the time, we were even aware of it) come with us without us realizing it.  They reside in the caverns of memory, reluctant to let go of us despite our seeming indifference to them.  Whether it be garden gates, bedroom carpets, once favourite toys, favoured friends or whatever, they follow us throughout our lives, just waiting for an opportune moment to renew the acquaintance.

Long may it ever be so.

   

I WAS KIDNAPPED ON TREASURE ISLAND...

A million years ago, in 1966 or '67, my older brother and myself each received a Christmas present of a book from a literature-loving aunt and uncle.  My brother got KIDNAPPED (and I often wished he would be), and I was given TREASURE ISLAND, both written by R. L. STEVENSON.  I can't remember if I read it at the time or not, but I did so ten years later and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Well, strictly speaking, that's not quite true.  You see, the one I read wasn't the original festive gift from years before (which had disappeared into limbo at some indeterminate stage), but a replacement I bought a decade later from a bookshop on recognizing the cover and being instantly transported back in time to my childhood.

The cover reminded me of the back garden of the house I'd lived in when I received my earlier printing of this classic.  That was likely because of the garden having a wooden fence similar to that shown on the dustjacket, although ours was held together by wire.  To this day, whenever I look at that illustration, in my mind's eye I'm once again gazing through my old bedroom window at the garden below.

The back garden from my bedroom window

Anyway, to bore you with further tedious and unnecessary detail, unlike my original copy, the replacement carried no dustjacket.  The cover was just like an annual, applied straight onto the boards.  When I revisited the house nigh on twenty years after leaving it, one of several items I took with me (to 'reconnect' to my past, as it were) was the replacement edition of Treasure Island.  So now the book not only reminds me of my former home, it's actually been in it.

  

Some years ago, in the OXFAM shop in Glasgow's Byres Road, I managed to re-obtain a dustjacketed edition published in the same year as my original book.  It sits alongside my brother's copy of Kidnapped (which, happily, survived). However, whether it's the '60s or '70s version, there's just something about that cover which sings to me of an earlier, more innocent time so many years ago.

BEHIND THE LOOKING-GLASS...

Have you ever looked into a mirror and wondered if the many images reflected in its surface over the years might've been captured and preserved within its atoms in some way, like that of a camera?  Just imagine being able to access those images and once more being able to see the faces of expired family members or even those who owned the mirror before you.  Or yourself as a child, sticking out your tongue at your reflection as you combed your hair before making your way to school in the morning many years before.

Every mirror in existence a repository of snapshots - like a photograph album - of moments from the lives of every individual who ever gazed into one.  Far-fetched perhaps, but interesting to consider nonetheless.  So, tell me - have you ever wondered?

GALLOPING HOME...

As I've grown older I've also grown more sentimental and nostalgic for times past.  Nothing wrong with that you'd think - except for the fact that I already had an over-developed sense of nostalgia from my earliest years.  This means that my tendency to look back on bygone days is probably now off the scale, but I find myself unable to rein it in.

Case in point: A few years ago I bought the NETWORK DVD collection of BLACK BEAUTY, which used to be shown on Sunday afternoons back in 1972 through to '74.  There were only 52 episodes ever filmed, but due to repeated screenings over the years, it sometimes seems that there were far more than the two series actually made.

Black Beauty was the British equivalent of SKIPPY or FLIPPER, except that it was about a horse instead of a kangaroo or a dolphin. "What's that, Beauty? Kevin is trapped in the old mill and needs help. You go and fetch Doctor Gordon, Beauty, and I'll go to the mill.  Bring him back with you.  Go, Beauty, go!"  In short, it was pure hokum - but entertaining hokum for all that.

It's not that I was a huge fan of the programme, only watching it occasionally when there was nothing else on, but (as is the way of such things) with the passing of the years, it now represents a certain time in my youth which has become more meaningful to me the greater the distance I'm removed from it.

It's strange to view it now and see all the characters preserved in time while I have aged and atrophied.  This feeling is increased with the sad knowledge that the actor who played young KEVIN GORDON (Roderick Shaw) died back in 1996, and Tony Maiden, who played ALBERT CLIFTON, committed suicide in 2004.  (And Charlotte Mitchell - housekeeper AMY WINTHROP - died last year.)

However, at the press of a button, there they are - just as they were when I was around the same age as the two lads (and their pal NED LEWIS, played by Stephen Garlick) who got into such adventures as most kids could only dream about.  And who could ever forget VICKY and JENNY GORDON, played by Judi Bowker and Stacy Dorning?  Then there's Dr. JAMES GORDON himself, played by William Lucas, who's still around to this day. (Update: Sadly, William died aged 91 on 8th July 2016.) 

Seeing them again is almost like dropping in on old friends, except for the fact that I've aged and they haven't - although the weight of years temporarily drops from my shoulders while I spend time in the company of these childhood acquaintances from so long ago.

At the end of A.A. Milne's The HOUSE At POOH CORNER, there's an extremely sad and touching moment when Christopher Robin tries to explain to an uncomprehending Pooh that life is taking them in different directions.  The book ends with these words: "But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on top of the forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

That's the way I feel about Black Beauty whenever I watch an episode. Somewhere, near a remote and picturesque farmhouse, an ebony horse and his human companions still roam the enchanted pastures and wooded hills of Hertfordshire - and I'm with them on their adventures.  (With Denis King's stirring theme tune, GALLOPING HOME, playing rousingly in the background of course.)

PAST, PRESENT OR FUTURE?

Imagine that scientists were able to devise a means by which humans could relive any point in their past as if experiencing it for the first time.  Working on the premise that more detailed memories of every moment we've ever en-countered are embedded in our subconscious than was previously realized, we could reconnect to them with such potency that they seemed real in every way. We'd see, hear, feel, and taste with a clarity so vivid it would virtually be time travel, except that it'd be happening only in our minds.

If such a thing were possible, how many of us would then stop seeking new ex-periences in the future, instead preferring to relive previous ones from the past in the here and now?  Never mind going to the dancing on week-ends and trying to chat up some brash, drunken nymphet - you could re-experience that night sixteen years back when you pulled the best looking girl at the work's dance and got up to some hanky-panky in a stationery cupboard.  You could read again any comic you ever had as a child, faithfully recreated from your memory-banks for you to peruse any time you felt like it.

Deceased friends and relatives could be 'resurrected', and once again you could sit and converse with them just as you did when they were alive.  Any conversation, any kiss, any holiday, any vanished toyshop from childhood could once more be as real to you as it used to be in bygone years.  What's more, in your mind, you'd be the same age that you were when any incident you wish to relive first happened. You could spend a day as a seven year old, with all the vitality and enthusiasm that was yours when you were that age.

The only drawback would be that it happens in 'real' time.  For example, every moment you 'relive' of your past would require the equivalent time in the present. That is, an hour would take an hour, a day would take a day, etc.

So, would you spend your future reliving various memories of yesteryear in your mind (but which felt entirely real), or would you rather spend your tomorrows experiencing new sensations in the flesh?  The past or the future beckons to you from the present.

What would your choice be?

JOURNEYS - BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS...

If you suddenly awoke from a deep sleep to inexplicably find yourself embarked on a train journey, destination unknown, you'd probably be startled and wonder "Where the hell am I and how did I get here?"  Seems an obvious reaction, right?  You wouldn't merely open your eyes and gaze out of the carriage window as though you expected to find yourself in transit like it was the most natural thing in the world, would you?

In contrast, when fully-functioning consciousness (i.e. sequential thought and memory) first dawns within us as children and we become able to recognise our surroundings and the people around us (when we 'wake up' in other words), we simply take it in our stride and don't seem in any way surprised or perturbed by the situation.  Not until much later do we start asking philosophical questions about why we're here and where we're going in this unplanned (at least from our perspective) journey we call 'life'.  Yet, essentially, the two situations are the same - so why such different reactions in each case?

This has always puzzled me, as has the fact that when we first become 'aware', we have no sense of never having existed - nor do we have one of having a specific beginning.  It's as if, in some mystical, magical, inexplicable way, we've always been - and that we always will 'be'.  Life soon enough erodes the gossamer foundations supporting the illusion of immortality - at least as far as the physical goes.

As for the 'spiritual', I'd like to think that my consciousness will somehow survive the expiration of my physical body, but a nagging doubt assails me.  You see, our conscious selves give every indication of being inextricably bound to our physicality, and seemingly entirely interdependent.  Therefore, since that which we regard as the 'soul' (personality, individuality, etc.,) doesn't appear to exist separately before birth, why should it continue to exist on its own after death?

'Tis said that it's better to travel hopefully than to arrive (to paraphrase Robert Louis Stevenson) - but if hope should disembark at an earlier stop, the remaining miles can make the trip a lonely one.  And what awaits us at the end of the journey?

I wish I could supply you with some profound and constructive conclusions to my meandering musings, but I find myself ill-equipped for the task.  If you have any pertinent observations you'd like to  make on this subject, the comments section awaits your input.

THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE...

There's a time in every young person's life when they assume, without ever really thinking about it, that they're not only invincible, but also immortal.  Usually it's around the teenage years and early 20s when we labour under this delusion, and I have to confess that I was no exception.  When we're young, we think we're going to be young forever, and old age and death seem so distant as to be unimaginable.  Then one day we wake up and realise that, not only are we 'over the hill', we're also actually halfway down the other side and somebody has cut the brakes.  What's more, we don't even recall getting to the top of that hill to begin with.  Shouldn't we at least remember the view?

When we're young the world is ours for the taking, and everything seems geared towards us and runs in perfect synchronicity with the pace of our lives.  Then, one day, it dawns on us that we're no longer participants in life's race, but merely observers, sitting on the sidelines, watching younger people revelling in a world that appears to have been created exclusively for them.  How one can be relegated to the benches without being aware of when it happened is a bit of a mystery, but trust me, that's the way things go.

Now, believe me when I say that I'm not the kind of person who revels in anyone's death, but I sometimes wonder if younger people's untimely expiration is Nature's way of reassuring us 'oldies' that being young isn't necessarily an indication of being accorded favoured status, and that, young or old, we're all equally subject to termination at short (or even no) notice.  If being 20 is no guarantee we'll reach 50, then perhaps 50-year-olds shouldn't feel so threatened by the passage of time as they do.  Life's a lottery and our numbers can come up at any moment.  Not quite a 'lucky dip' - but you get the point, I'm sure.

I feel that I should somehow find the above notion reassuring, but for some reason I remain unconvinced.  How about you?

******

Harvest Gate

                                 I lingered by a gate a little while

                                 and watched some children play in fields of green.

                                 Their joyous voices gave me cause to smile

                                 and filled my troubled soul with thoughts serene.

                                 If only I could once again be young

                                 and join them in their happy escapades,

                                 then all my years would be a song well-sung

                                 and I could claim I've lived my life in spades.

                                 But as I leave the gate, my mood turns low,

                                 the chills of age envelop my frail frame.

                                 I know I haven't very long to go

                                 'til he who wields the sickle calls my name.

                                 But I have lived and loved, both lost and won,

                                 and now the course of my life's race is run.

(Iain Osborne.)
   

TO THE LONGBOATS...THE MOST FAMOUS 'VIKING' OF ALL!

Alas, alack, woe is me!  I am cast down and utterly despondent.  Oh, despair!  And what is the reason for my melancholy mood, the more kindly amongst you may wonder.  I'll tell you.  As far as I'm aware, I've only ever been to Largs (in Ayrshire) three times in my life.  At least, that is to say I've holidayed there three times, but perhaps I've passed through or near to it over the years without being aware of the fact while in a friend's car en route to somewhere else.

The years I'm specifically referring to, however, are 1968, '69 & '71, when I was 9, 10 & 12 years old respectively.  On at least two occasions, my family attended The VIKING CINEMA in Largs, once to see Those MAGNIFICENT MEN In Their FLYING MACHINES and also, I think, The MAGNIFICENT SEVEN - though I can't recall which of the two we saw first, not that it matters.  (However, come to think of it, it's strange that both movies had the word 'magnificent' in the title.)

The Viking Cinema was a truly, er... magnificent art-deco establishment, with a sturdy mock-up of the prow of a Viking longship protruding from the front of the building.  I recall standing on it and thinking what it must've been like to sail the seven seas in days of yore, doing a spot of pillaging and... well, I was just a boy, so I was probably ignorant of the other activity for which Vikings were infamous, so we needn't go there.

Over the years, I've often thought back to those holidays, fully intending to revisit Largs again and once more stand on the deck of that prow and relive my boyhood memories.  Imagine my dismay then, when I learned only an hour or so ago, that The Viking Cinema closed on August 4th, 1973 (a mere two years after my last visit to Largs) and was demolished in 1983.  (Apparently it had been turned into a bottling plant in the intervening years between closure and demolition.)

Now, not only is it devastating to learn that a childhood landmark no longer exists, but that it ceased to exist so far back in time as to be separated from my actual experience of the place by only a metaphorical hair.  All the years that I've imagined it still functioning as a cinema (or, if closed, only having done so relatively recently), have all been based on nothing more than the ghost of a memory - a fantasy even.

Alas, alack, I may never again be able to stand on the deck of The Viking in actuality, but, in the coming years, I'll do so - often - in the evergreen and eternal land of memory.

******

And, in case you were wondering why a Scottish town would have a Viking-themed cinema, it's because the long-haired rascals tried to invade us a few centuries back (October 2nd, 1263 to be exact) and we gave them a good gubbing.  (Thor's hammer, in the guise of a stick, must still have been lying in that cave in Norway, which is probably why he couldn't help them out.)  The cinema was in tribute to our well-deserved victory and their defeat - not that we like to rub it in or anything.

******

Apparently, after being removed from the building, the ship's prow was taken to the Isle of Cumbrae and remained there for years.  If anyone has any information as to whether it's still there or not, feel free to get in touch.

******

Update:  I finally revisited Largs in 2014.  You can read about my return to my three-time holiday haunt here.

  

OF MICE AND BLIND MEN...

Once upon a time, in a far away land called 'The Past', I had a friend called ADAM COWIE (not quite his real name, but close enough).  From the age of around 7 years old until I was about 22, I considered him one of my closest pals.  I'm not quite sure why, as he was a liar, a fantasist and a thief, who, as a child, was always getting into trouble.  (This is the same boy who stole the moon-suit, as related in the previous post.)  His parents, who were both blind, were members of the local Baptist Church, and had an annoying tendency (as do many parents) to attribute their son's constant bad behaviour (at school and outside of it) to others, rather than to his own natural propensity for landing himself in the soft and smelly brown stuff.

One Saturday, in 1970 or '71, myself and my pal were wandering around the town centre and called in to the Pet Shop to have a look-see.  (Incidentally, the shop only relatively recently relocated to new premises after being in the same place for well over 40 years.)  Our eyes spotted a white mouse, which was inexpensive enough for me to purchase if I so wished.  I was half-inclined to, and Adam encouraged me, saying that he would give me half the cost at a later date, and that we could take turns looking after it.

And so it came to pass that we became the proud owners of a new pet.  We went back to his house first, whereupon his parents said he wasn't allowed to have it, not even on a part-time basis.  He threw a strop, and his father, fetching a cane from the outside garden cellar, marched his son into the house for a whipping.  He turned in my direction as he went through the door, saying "See the trouble you've brought to this house?!"  It goes without saying that I considered it unfair of him to place the blame for his son's reaction on me.  (It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.)

Anyway, I became the sole owner of QUICKSILVER, as he came to be known, and looked after him until I had to find him a new home when we went on a fortnight's holiday to Largs in 1971.  (I didn't really want to part with him, but couldn't let him starve.)  Many, many years later, someone pointed out the fellow to whom I'd given him, and said that he was well-known for maltreating (if not outright torturing) pets he'd owned when younger.  As I type this,  I'm overcome with horror and guilt at the fate to which I'd unwittingly delivered poor Quicksilver, and can only hope that he didn't suffer too much.  If there's one thing I could go back and change in my life, it would be to not hand my mouse over to the sicko who I  thought he'd be safe with.

(I have a nagging memory of running into him months later, in '71 or '72, and asking him how my former pet was.  "It's deid!" he muttered as he passed.  I was slightly stunned at the news, but it wasn't until I learned of his disturbing proclivities long after the fact that the sinister significance of his words dawned on me.)

But I digress.  Earlier I'd said that Adam's parents were blind, which was true, but though his father had one glass eye, the blindness in his other eye was caused by a cataract, which, in 1976, was operated on, resulting in him having some partial-but-restricted sight.  Adam's mother had died in 1975, and he and his father moved into a flat not far away from me several months later.  It was while living in this flat that a female neighbour would sometimes chap their door and hand in a pot of home-made soup for the pair of them, purely out of the goodness of her heart.

One day, while handing in some soup, she mentioned that her radio had expired.  "Bring it over and I'll take a look at it," said my pal's pater, and she duly trotted across the landing to fetch it.  It turned out to be a simple matter of a blown fuse, but rather than replace it, Mr. Cowie just affixed another plug and retained the original.  (It may even have been the complete power cord.)  Once it was working again and handed back, I heard him crowing to his son at what a far better plug it was, and what an inferior, cheaper, age-worn plug he'd supplied in its place.  He was positively gloating at having put one over on the neighbour who'd never been any-thing but kind to him.  I almost felt like saying "That'll be why Adam's such a lying, diddling, scheming b*st*rd who's always getting himself into trouble - it's the example you've set him!"  I didn't, of course.

While still at primary school years before, Adam and a classmate came into school one morning with two diecast toy cars.  I can no longer recall if they were CORGIs or DINKYs, but Adam claimed that they were both presents from an aunt of either him or the other boy.  (I still remember the second lad's name, but I'll spare his blushes as what I'm about to relate was uncharacteristic of him.) Turned out they'd stolen them from a young boy playing outside his house on their way to school, as we all discovered when the boy's mother descended on the school to complain.  If they'd kept the cars in their schoolbags and not shown them off, they might have got away with it, but having flaunted their ill-gotten goods, it was easy to track down the culprits.

His parents were obviously in denial over their inabilty to control their unruly offspring, and often blamed me for his wayward exploits, as we sometimes got into bother for trivial misbehaviour together.  However, the fact that I was seldom ever in any trouble myself, while he was often in trouble either by himself or with others, was lost on them.  It was always "that [insert my name here] fault", whether I was even present at the time of an incident or not.  Years later, he admitted to me that he'd sometimes told his parents that I was the cause of several of his various misdemeanours, simply to shift the blame and assuage his parents' anger - even if we hadn't been together at the time of his transgressions.

If you're interested in what eventually became of this fellow and our friendship, further details can be found here.  Thinking things over now, if my former friend and a mouse were hanging over a cliff, I'd be sure to rescue the rodent first (the furry one, that is).  In fact, I'd be tempted to call it quits after saving the mouse.

This has been another completely self-indulgent 'Rambling Reminiscence' - in case you hadn't already noticed.  Comments, anyone?

PERCEPTIONS AND PROJECTIONS DEPT - HOW THINGS ARE, OR HOW THINGS SEEM TO BE?

This is going to be a difficult one to express because it's kind of a nebulous con-cept, but I'm willing to give it a go if you are.  Ready?  Do houses, neighbourhoods and places have a particular 'ambiance' all their own, or does it all depend on the 'eye of the beholder'?

Oh dear, lost your interest already?  I'll persevere.  When I was about 13, the area I lived in had a particular 'feel' about it.  When I moved house in 1972, aged 13 and a half, that 'atmosphere', 'feeling', 'mood' - call it what you will - continued in my new home and street, and I've wondered over the years whether that was something to do with both houses sitting atop a hill.

You see, when I'd come out of either of those houses, I'd stand at the top of a hill and view the horizon in the distance, giving me a feeling of being 'master of all I surveyed'.  As I walked down (literally) either of those streets, the horizon became less visible on the descent, and it's only natural to wonder if my similar experiences of both places is what resulted in my parallel perceptions of them.

Or was it nothing to do with that?  Was it just where I was 'at' in my head at that particular time in my life, and was it me projecting my own subjective perceptions onto both neighbourhoods that accounts for how I regarded them at the time, rather than how they objectively were?  In short, was it how I imagined them rather than how they really were that determined my perceptions?

Had I lived in either of those houses at different times in my life than when I did, perhaps I'd have 'sensed' and responded to those surroundings in another way;  perhaps the ambiance, as it appeared to me, would have been different at 19 than it was at 13, who knows?

Perhaps we just 'see', 'sense', 'feel', 'experience', etc., things in particular ways at different times in our lives, irrespective of how things happen to be.  Could it be that we project our own sense of a place onto it, rather than respond to how that place actually is?  All I know is that, these days, whenever I walk down either of the two streets mentioned, although I can remember how things 'used to be', I'm all too painfully aware that they seem different somehow, in ways that I can't fully articulate.

Of course, other contributory factors must be considered, one being that at the foot of the first hill was a school I attended as a boy in the 1960s.  At that time, WHAM! comic was reprinting the adventures of The FANTASTIC FOUR, and on winter after- noons after school I would see the building interiors lit up in the darkness as the cleaners set about their business.

From the top of the second hill (but farther away) I could see another school of a similar design, which, when viewed in the same wintry conditions, reminded me of the school in my previous neighbourhood.  At the time (early '70s), The MIGHTY WORLD Of MARVEL was reprinting those same FF tales, so perhaps the 'deja-vu' type sensation created in my subconscious can hardly be considered surprising.  Then again, maybe not.

   

When we look back on our childhoods much later in life, summers always seem to have been longer, skies bluer, winters whiter, Christmases snowier, etc. - but were they?  Or is it simply the case that's how we viewed things at the time (or imagine them later), rather they actually were?  Time changes all things, alas, but oft-times far too quickly.

Anyone got any thoughts on the matter?  (Presuming, of course, that I managed to express my thoughts in any way resembling a coherent one.)

THE DAY 'BATMAN' FAILED...

You'll perhaps recall me relating the tale of how myself and one of my pals used to play at BATMAN & ROBIN back in the 1960s.  (You're no doubt relieved to hear that it wasn't just a few months ago - I'm not that sad.)  For my utility belt, I utilised part of the accompanying paraphernalia from my father's wartime portable morse code apparatus, which, to my young eyes, looked vaguely similar to ADAM WEST's equipment-laden waistline accessory on TV.

Now, usually I came in for a fair bit of mockery from my peers for my costumed exploits 'round the neighbourhood, as did my companion in crime-fighting, JOHN FIDLER (lucky his nickname wasn't 'KID', eh?), who assumed the role of ROBIN, The BOY WONDER.  However, one evening, three local girls, who'd never previously paid the slightest bit of attention to me, seemed impressed by the striking appearance of my makeshift 'utility belt' and enthusiastically asked for a demonstration of its capabilities.

Touched by their obvious interest and spurred on by the look of wonder and admiration in their eyes, I agreed, and as we were playing close to some nearby lock-ups, I headed over to the water tap used by car owners to wash their vehicles.  It was housed in a grey-painted, oblong wooden 'box' against a lock-up wall, and picking up a metal bar from the ground, I placed it atop the flat surface of the box.

Directing the girls to stand at a distance over to my right (on the faux grounds that "it might be dangerous") I pretended to take some imaginary 'plastic explosive' from my belt and apply it to the iron rod.  Then, standing beside the tap and preventing their uninterrupted view, I simulated the act of pressing a button on what passed for my buckle while simultaneously attempting (surreptitiously) to bring down my left elbow on the end of the bar and hopefully send it somersaulting high into the air as though propelled by the explosive.

Alas, my ability was not the equal of my ambition, and my ruse was rumbled right away.  Disillusioned cries rent the air, along with contemptuous looks and jeering tones from the trio as they stormed off in disgust at my barefaced attempt to defraud them.  Ah, how fickle were the affections of these three feisty females, the extent of whose eager expectations I had clearly underestimated and been found sadly lacking as a consequence.

Even today, I remember how deflating it was to see the look of awe and adoration fade from the eyes of the three former fawning fillies who, only a short time before, had regarded me as a figure worthy of respect and admiration, if not actual hero worship.  There have been several females down through the years whose unrealistic expectations I've probably been unable to live up to, but nothing fills me with such feelings of failure as the memory of the faces of those three fearsome frustrated furies from so very long ago.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, MR BLUNDEN?

Long ago and far away, in a time and place which now seem to have existed only in dreams, I read a book called The GHOSTS, by ANTONIA BARBER.  I was around eleven or twelve at the time, and I enjoyed it so much that, an hour or so later, after returning home from a trip to the shops with my family, I read it all over again.

Contrary to what the title suggests, the book isn't really about ghosts, it's about time travel.  Not in a science-fiction way though, but rather in a kind of mystical, magical fashion, which isn't explained in any detail.  A couple of years after reading it, a film version was released, called The AMAZING Mr. BLUNDEN, starring LAURENCE NAISMITH and LYNNE FREDERICK. (To say nothing of the usual complement of stalwarts from the British acting community, like JAMES VILLIERS, DIANA DORS and MADELINE SMITH, to name but a few.

The book was set in what was then present-day 1969, with two children travelling 100 years back in time to save two other children who had perished in a house fire.  However, for some reason, LIONEL JEFFRIES, the screenwriter and director, set it in 1918 instead.  It's not a bad little movie, and is well-worth watching for the delightful performances of James Villiers and other members of the cast, though I was slightly disappointed to find that some dialogue in the book which had made me laugh out loud was absent.

I find it interesting that the film was in production around the time I was reading the novel on which it was based, although I didn't get to see it 'til about thirteen or fourteen years later.  (About half my life away at the time.)  However, I remember seeing the trailer on television back at the end of 1972 and instantly recognising, despite the different name, the source of this new cinematic production.  Also, the book had only been written about two years before filming began, so full marks to Lionel Jeffries for recognising its potential straight off the mark.

There's a passage in the book where one of the children, in the present day, is exploring the burnt-out country house that she experienced 100 years in the past (when it was still in its glory), and she recognises some of the items lying around the now deserted and dilapidated rooms.  Here is what it says:

Old clothes, old clocks, old toys, old books, which had once been swept along on the strong current of everyday life, now lay in corners like the tide-wrack along the beach, serving only to show where life had been.

All these things had been cherished once for their beauty or their usefulness, or just for the warm familiarity of their presence.  Now they were cast aside and forgotten.

As someone who has spent over half his life in re-acquiring once-cherished treasures that had fallen victim to time, there's something about the phrase "the warm familiarity of their presence" that really resonates with me.  Its an ex-tremely comforting feeling being surrounded by the familiar, because then the past doesn't seem so very far away and, consequently, the illusion can be maintained for a little longer that the end of life's journey isn't quite so near as is actually the case.

So, if you haven't already done so, read the book and see the movie - and may all your 'ghosts' be familiar ones.

TOO MANY LINKS, TOO LONG A CHAIN...

Being of an artistic bent (stop it), I've been useful over the years to quite a number of people.  "Gordon, my boss/manager/teacher/pastor has put me in charge of organising the advertising/posters/illustrations/publicity for our upcoming jumble sale/Christmas party/school reunion/rally and I thought of you.  Could you help me out by doing me a banner/cartoon/diagram/map to help raise people's awareness/interest/curiosity/attendance?"  Then they call up another poor schmuck to talk them into doing some other aspect of the task assigned to them, while they sit back and take the credit for the fruits of other people's labour.

This chain of events usually operates in descending order, with one person being assigned the task, who then asks someone else to arrange it all, who then asks someone else for help in some area of said task, who then asks various other people to do the actual work.  Too many middle-men in my opinion.  The person who initiates the process should earn their wage  by making themselves aware of exactly who can do the job required and contact them directly.  Then all the useless people whose only area of expertise is knowing someone else capable of doing their work for them could be eliminated from a needlessly long process.

Someone I know who works for a design/ad agency was once tasked with thinking up a name for an in-house magazine for one of their customers and asked me for ideas.  I thought for all of two minutes before coming up with one that the person was delighted with.  I was told later that the customer was also delighted, and no doubt lots of cash changed hands.  I never saw a penny and received nary a thanks, yet was given the distinct impression that I should regard my invitation to 'participate' as being accorded a great honour.

Local government seems to operate on this principle.  Just think of the dosh we would save taxpayers if we could eliminate all the pointless levels of bureaucracy whose only purpose in the overall scheme of things is to get other people to do the job that they can't do themselves.  It's the old, old story, I fear - 'too many Chiefs and not enough Indians'.  Got any examples of such instances that you'd care to share?  The comments section awaits.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE VANISHING HA'PENNY...

When we lived in a neighbourhood called WESTWOOD in the 1960s, the bridge over the main road across from our house had a 1939 ha'penny (pronounced 'hayp'nie' - in my neck of the woods anyway) embedded in the concrete of the far-side ramp.  Whenever we crossed the bridge en route to the bus stop, I would gaze at that ha'penny and wonder who'd 'planted' it.  One of the workies who built the bridge, perhaps, or some kid who'd managed to set foot on the ramp before the concrete bed from which the railings protruded was completely set?

Later, when crossing the bridge on my way to secondary school on the other side of the road, I couldn't pass that ha'penny without looking at it and sometimes even touching it for luck.  Believe it or not, that coin was a well-known local icon for 30-plus years, and I don't think there's anyone I know from the area at that time who wasn't aware of it.  Even today, I hear folk reminiscing about "the ha'penny on the bridge".

Then, around 17 years ago, the ha'penny suddenly vanished from its accustomed spot.  The indentation where it had once been remained visible for years afterwards until fairly recently, when a cosmetic repair job was done on the bridge due to having fallen into a state of disrepair over time.  In fact, I'm not entirely sure that the circular impression isn't still visible - I'll have to check the next time I'm in the area.

I should add, in case I've given you the wrong idea, that the bridge wasn't anywhere near as old as the coin.  (It had either been completed just shortly before we moved to the area in '65, or was erected not long after.)  Old currency was still in circulation up until Decimalisation in 1971, and even then, a few coins were in use alongside their decimal equivalents for many years afterwards.

So what happened to that 1939 ha'penny?  (Just think - SUPERMAN had not long made his debut when the coin was minted, and BATMAN was just about to take his first bow.)  Well, as it happens, I'm in a position to tell you.  Here, for the first time anywhere, is the scoop on the fate of that renowned coin, whose disappearance has puzzled and disappointed old-time local worthies in equal measure for close to two decades.

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD!

Exposure to the elements for over 30 years had left the coin - and the concrete setting which housed it - in a sorry state.  I knew at some stage the bridge would have to be patched up in places, and it occurred to me that the coin would then probably disappear under a new concrete skin, never to be seen again.  And there was also the risk that, with the ongoing erosion of its concrete surround, it may well become detached from its moorings and cast into oblivion by the winds and rain.

So, on June 5th, 1996 (for the historians amongst you), at half-past midnight, I was driven to the bridge, whereupon I liberated the captive ha'penny by careful application of hammer and chisel - with a single blow - and took it home with me, where it yet resides to this day.

So, there you have it!  Any long-term locals reading this who may have wondered what had happened to that iconic ha'penny need wonder no more.  It's safe and sound in a secret hideaway, where I can take it out every now and again and remember it in its heyday as a neighbourhood landmark - whose presence everybody and their granny acknowledged whenever they passed it in its home on the Westwood bridge.

However, in the spirit of unselfish generosity for which I'm justly famous, I herewith share some pictures of it with you now.  Not just the side which countless locals observed in their daily perambulations across the bridge, but also the face which kissed concrete for more than three decades before I rescued it from an impending and inglorious fate.

Don't you just love a happy ending?