"Being a child during the war years, bicycles and toys were second-hand. Dad had spent a long time teaching me to ride a bicycle, and then aged six I was given a bike. It had cost quite a lot and I was instructed to write down the number on the frame and put it somewhere safe. What he had omitted to tell me was why. I wrote it down and put it in the saddle bag. The expletives he used when I told him where I had put it made me feel like the twit I obviously was.
He didn’t much appreciate the day I locked him in the chicken house either ...
Saturday was the highlight of the week. Morning pictures at the flicks, and the afternoon was always spent with my gang re-enacting the film. We got the essential props from our chicken house.
As I passed the chicken house door I noticed it was ajar, so I put the peg of wood in the hasp. When we returned to the garden, we heard hammering and more expletives from the chicken house.
When I let him out my father was covered in feathers, and worse, and my gang ran home. Mum thought it was funny which made matters and the language worse.
I loved my Dad dearly - swearwords and all - but he didn’t have much patience with children. I wonder why?
