THE 'GOOFY' LETTERS...

Mr. TOM TIERNEY and granddaughter STACEY

In November 1965, my family moved into a new neighbourhood - new to us, as well as being only two years 'new' itself.  I can no longer state with any certainty whether it was on the first or subsequent evening that my brother and myself met the other local kids, but I do remember one of them introducing the group to us. "Hi, I'm Tony and this is my brother Kenny," said one of them.  Tony was TONY TIERNEY, and it should come as no surprise to you to learn that his wee brother shared the same surname.  (This was the '60s remember, when siblings tended to have the same parents.)

There were others there too, to whom Tony introduced us in turn, but I no longer recollect the precise roll call.  Probably ROBERT FORTUNE and GRAHAM BROWN, along with GUS MARTIN and KENNY McLEOD maybe, but I do seem to recall there being around four or five in total.  I ran into Gus in Glasgow a few weeks back, and Kenny called in today to deliver the pics you see in this post. Which brings me to the point.

Daughter GERALDINE and her dad

Kenny's father, TOM (who I always called Mr. Tierney) was a regular letter writer to the local newspaper (and others).  He wrote under the nom de plume of 'GOOFY' and his missives offered an often whimsical view of life in general, and also opinions on issues relating specifically to things happening within the town.  His alter-ego enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity status among a loyal group of readers, whose daily lives were cheered by exposure to his latest thoughts, theories and fancies.  If he were alive today, he'd doubtless have a blog of his own.

Tom's wife ALICE.  (Or Mrs. Tierney to me.)  Blackpool 1977

I mentioned him in a previous post a while back, and Kenny was much touched by the fact, and, I believe, derived a certain pleasure from seeing his father's literary contributions receiving public recognition, even on such a low-key outlet as this blog.  I asked him to provide a photograph or two of his dad so I could add one to the other post (which I have), but I thought I'd do another one specifically on Mr. Tierney, as he was such a fixture of the neighbourhood for so many years.

I have extremely fond memories of living in that neighbourhood -  for nearly seven of the most formative years of my life.  Most of the friends I know today, I first met back then, and it's been a source of some surprise to me over the years to learn just how many of them thought I still lived there many years after having moved away, so strongly did they associate me with the place.  Of course, the fact that I was often back in the area probably helped cement that idea in their minds.

A slightly blurred screen-grab of Mr. Tierney's 'scooter' in his back garden, shot from my
bedroom window in a video I made of my old house in 1991 - 19 years after I'd moved

There are quite a few folk who remind me of the area, but none moreso, I guess, than Mr. Tierney.  No doubt he's putting about on his little scooter in a finer place than this one, mentally composing his next letter to The Heavenly Times.  And I'll bet they're enjoyed up there every bit as much as they were down here.  In fact, he's probably been made editor by now.  So here's to 'Goofy' - he may be gone, but he'll definitely never be forgotten.

Mr. Tierney, with KENNY & TONY

ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN YESTERYEAR...

Once upon a time, in a faraway country called The Past, there was a shop named MODATOYS.  I don't think that was its sole name during its entire lifespan, as a nagging voice tells me it was also christened TOYTOWN at one stage and maybe even something else at another.  However, as I remember it as Modatoys, that's how I'll refer to it now.  (It also sold books, games, and other things.)

The shop opened in the early '70s (if not earlier) and was around until the late '80s (if not later), and I still have several items I bought from the place over the years.  A pair of mini-binoculars (with compass and mirror), The WIND In The WILLOWS (a hardback and a paperback), TOAD Of TOAD HALL, MOONFLEET, THREE LITTLE GREY MEN (and its sequel, Three Little Grey Men GO DOWN The BRIGHT STREAM).

I also have a TWIKI figure from BUCK ROGERS, a couple of red paintbrushes, two chess sets & boards (different sizes), and perhaps one or two other things.  Oh, and the paperback book you can see at the top of this post - ALICE'S ADVENTURES In WONDERLAND.  I bought it on a magnificently hot summer's afternoon in 1973 or '74 (so I'd still have been a schoolboy), and one glance takes me back to that time quicker than Dr. WHO's TARDIS.

When I leaf through its pages, the shop still exists, my demolished schools yet stand in their prime, and the 'new town' in which I live is exactly as it was back then - smaller, brighter, cleaner, newer.  Everything is as it was, even if only for a few fleeting moments, but oh, what welcome moments they are.  I wish I could show you the interior colour photographs in the book, but I can't open it wide enough to scan without damaging, and that would never do.

Readers, do you have a book or item that serves the purpose of a time machine and takes you right back to an earlier era from which you're loath to depart?  Why not tell your fellow Mellows about it in the comments section?  Go on - it's good to share.  So here's to The Past - sometimes it's the only thing to look forward to!

CHILDHOOD CAPERS - CHAPTER ONE...

Image copyright DC COMICS

It was around 1970/'71, and myself and two pals were leaning on a railing outside a row of apartments above the neighbourhood shops.  Passing below were three thuggish, slightly older females who hung around with the local neds.  They glared up at us.  "Whit ur you f*ckin' lookin' at?"  they trilled in their delicate, girlish way (sarcasm).  "Dunno - the label's fallen off!" I yelled back.  The gauntlet had been thrown down, and the trio of nasty nedettes responded by mounting the stairway, their Doc Martins pounding the steps in pursuit of ourselves.

I say 'pursuit' because the moment I opened my gob, the other two legged it and I followed.  These girls were bigger and older than us, and as hard as nails.  Having been brought up never to hit a 'girl', we'd have been at a distinct disadvantage trying to defend ourselves against the furious assault that was surely forthcoming. We fled past the front of the apartments towards the door to the interior stairway which led down to the shops below.

We reached the bottom door with a sigh of relief.  Once we were through that exit, our safety was secure and an inglorious fate would be avoided.  Alas, 'twas not to be - the door was locked, being early evening, and that avenue to freedom was denied us.  We considered going back up the stairs to the first floor offices above the shops and below the apartments, and using the corridor leading to the library to make our escape.  Too late!  We heard the 'girls' on the steps and realized discovery was imminent.  What to do?

Then I had a brainwave!  The bottom flight of stairs wasn't closed off, allowing us to seek shelter under them, so I beckoned my comrades to conceal themselves as I did likewise.  We bunched together tightly, as the merest glance under the stairway would've revealed our presence, and tried hard not to make a noise.  The nedettes pushed and pulled at the locked door, then grunted in frustrated rage.  "They must've got out on the first floor!" one snorted.  We expected them to return to the upper levels again, but they plonked themselves down on the steps above us and each lit up a cigarette.

We moved not a muscle and feared even to breathe, lest we betray ourselves.  After a seeming eternity (but was actually only a couple of minutes or so), they ascended the stairs and made their exit, amidst much muttering and detailed descriptions of what damage they'd inflict if they saw us.  We stayed rigid for a few moments longer, but once their voices were no longer audible, we exhaled a collective sigh of relief.  What a narrow escape and we knew it.  I can't recall any other moment in my life when I felt more alive, every sense attuned to my surroundings, and I'm sure my two friends felt the same.  (I wonder if they even remember it now?)

Even today, I think back to that moment and recall how I felt at the time; the excitement, the exhilaration, the fear, and, of course, the sheer relief and gratitude at having survived a precarious predicament unscathed.  It was like something from a 3 Investigators book or a Mission Impossible episode - a truly thrilling moment that lives on forever in my mind, and reminds me that, once, my life was more than the uneventful series of events it is now.  I felt like James Bond, even though, at that time, I'd not yet seen a Bond film.  However, I knew that anyone who had a real car like my Corgi Toys Aston Martin must be a cool guy in the face of danger - much like myself, in fact (he said, modestly), as the tale I've just related surely testifies.

Okay, so, technically, we ran away from three girls - but only because we didn't want to have to hurt them.  (Well, that's my story and I'm darn well sticking to it.  Wanna argue?)

Ever been in a similar situation?  Then let's hear all about it in the comments section, o fellow Mellows.  Spill the beans!

PART TEN OF SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - THE LABRADOR 'SAUSAGE' DOG...

Mr. CURRY was the janitor of the second primary school I attended.  He lived in the end house of the fourth row down from mine, straight across from the school, and his house came with the job.  Imagine my surprise when, a year or two after we'd flitted to a new house and neighbourhood, I noticed that Mr. Curry had become janitor of the primary school just around the corner from us.  His house (that again came with the job) stood in splendid isolation in the school grounds.

Before flitting, I'd been a secondary school pupil for nearly two years, but Mr. Curry was still a regular sight on account of him passing my house to or from the pub on the far side of the shops across the street.  It was therefore a tad strange when, after we'd flitted, he again became a regular sight to me in my perambulations around my new neighbourhood, either when I passed the school on my way to the town centre, or saw him walking home from his local public house.  He liked a drink, did Mr. Curry.  Died quite a few years ago now.

Let's now jump back to when I was yet living in my former neighbourhood and was still a primary school pupil, sometime around 1968, give or take a year either way.  While gazing out of the window of the annexe huts across from the main building one afternoon, I saw Mr. Curry taking a kick at a Golden Labrador which appeared to be seeking shelter in the doorway.  His kick may have connected, but I couldn't say with certainty after all this time.  I was shocked to see an adult behave in such a heartless manner towards one of man's best friends, and felt sorry for the poor animal.

The very doorway.  The school was demolished
nearly two years ago.  Photo taken circa 1984

Later that evening, coming back from a pal's house, I saw that the dog was again sheltering in the school doorway.  Had it been abandoned?  Was it lost?  Or had it tracked down its young master to the school and was now faithfully waiting for him to emerge from the building, not realizing that he'd gone home several hours before?  I told my father about the dog, and, along with my brother, we went down to the school and brought the dog home with us.  It was a friendly animal, and hungrily scoffed the cold link sausages we fed it from the fridge.

My father, who worked for the police, arranged for them to collect the poor dog and house it in their kennels 'til collected by its lawful owners.  He later informed us that the canine had been claimed, but even at the young age I then was, I wondered if he was telling us what had actually happened or what he knew we wanted to hear.  Many years later, I saw inside the station kennels for strays, and they were the dirtiest, smelliest, vilest quarters imaginable.  To think that, if the dog wasn't reunited with its owners, it had spent its last days in such conditions is awful to contemplate.

I never much liked Mr. Curry after that, though, truth to tell, I hadn't much liked him before, but he fell even further in my estimation from then on.  Strange thing is, whenever I see a Golden Labrador now, I can't help but think of that poor beast from so long ago, and still find myself hoping that it was a happy ending all round for the dog and its owners.

Sometimes there are some things we're better not knowing, don't you think?  Just in case.

"WHEN GIANTS WALKED The EARTH!" PART NINE Of SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS...

A bit of 'photoshop' going on here I believe

I don't remember her name, but I do remember what she looked like.  She taught English (I think) in a room of one of the annexed huts at the back of my sec-ondary school's main building.  I can no longer recall how the topic came up (talking about DAVID and GOLIATH perhaps), but I suddenly tuned in to what she was saying when I heard her say that giants had never existed. 

I knew that wasn't necessarily true.  Didn't my ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITAN-NICA Anthology say otherwise?  You can bet your last ROLO it did!  Here's part of what it said:

Remains of Giants

January 11.  1613, some masons digging near the ruins of a castle in Dauphine, France, in a field which (by tradition) had long been called the giant's field, at the depth of 18 feet discovered a brick-tomb 30 feet long, 12 feet wide, and 8 feet high;  on which was a grey stone, with the words Theutobochus cut thereon.  When the tomb was opened, they found a human skeleton entire, 25 feet and a half long, 10 feet wide across the shoulders, and five feet deep from the breastbone to the back.  His teeth were about the size each of an ox's foot, and his shin bone measured four feet.

It goes on to list other examples, but the one above will suffice for the purpose of this post.  I couldn't remember the exact details when I put my hand up to point out her 'error', but I knew I had the book back home which revealed the rashness of her claim.  I told her (in the politest of terms, naturally) that (if the EB accounts were true) she was wrong, but she pooh-poohed my earnest assertion with the assured, contemptuous manner of the intellectually superior towards the gullible and superstitious, and heaped scorn and derision upon my head.

The very book I took to school in 1971 or '72

"There's no such thing as giants!  Only the most uneducated of people would ever believe they once existed" she mocked, dismissing me with a wave.  Next day, I brought in the very book and showed it to her in front of the class.  As she read, she paled, then blushed, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  She might be able to look down her nose at me, but the Encyclopaedia Britannica was a different matter.

She spoke, but her voice was hoarse.  She cleared her throat, then stuttered and stammered her reply.  "Er, there's no such thing as giants, but there were tall men.  I never said there weren't tall men.  This was obviously just a tall man - a very tall man" she said lamely.  The class sniggered at her desperate and unconvincing efforts to extricate herself from an embarrassing situation of her own making.

"Well, 25 and a half feet seems pretty gigantic to me - but regardless of their exact height, that's what they called 'very tall men' back then - 'giants'" I said.  "And what about the other examples?" I continued, triumphant in my vindication.  "Tall men, just very tall men" she blustered, trying to cling on to her rapidly fading credibility.  Too late!  It had vanished like a thief in the night, and yet another teacher had learned the folly of underestimating me.  Neds they could deal with, but  I represented an altogether different kind of challenge - one that they routinely found themselves ill-equipped to tackle.  (Yeah, you can feel the ego there, can't you?)

She always tried to avoid my gaze after that.  We both knew who had come off second-best in our little encounter and doubtless she didn't want to be reminded of it should our eyes meet across the classroom.  Teachers, eh?

Famous 'giant' Robert Wadlow

The full extract.  Click to enlarge

******

(What she should have said, of course, was that she was talking about fairy-tale giants who lived in castles in the sky, or that the excerpts in the book reflected the knowledge and opinions of earlier times, which had since been supplanted by subsequent discoveries and enlightenment.  However, she wasn't quick-thinking enough for that.)

'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.)