My life . . . Already?
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was it so long ago? (1)
posted Friday, 17 December 2004
Wet oilcloth.
A smell that pricks the nostrils.
Not unpleasant - almost addictive.
Cosy.
Secure.
Embracing.
A smell to evoke earliest memory.
Memory of a huge, tented ceiling sprung taut with a booming clunk. Of a black, canvas backed cover, also taut, with chromium tags stretched to mate with miniature bollards in matching chrome, forming a windbreak protecting my face - the only exposed area of a swaddled infant - as the high pram pitches and bounces through the slanted rain on curling, leather mounted carriage springs.
Stars, gas lamps, clanking trams, shop windows, hatted faces and umbrellas flit across the open space framed by the dripping hood and the cover's edge, filling my wide eyes.
Intermittent stops accompanied by scraping and scratching, amplified by my cavernous surround, as the cover is lifted carefully while shopping is stowed in the hold beneath my mattress.
Then home to 129 Oban road, Barking, Essex
Some bumps over the steps, through the front door, and a clunk - gentler this time - precedes the collapse of my protective ceiling, then the release of the taut cover allows the roaring, yellow-white incandescent light from the gas mantle to flood over me as strong, warm arms pluck me from my mattress.
Away from the wet oilcloth.
A smell that pricks the nostrils.
Not unpleasant - almost addictive.
Cosy.
Secure.
Embracing.
A smell to evoke earliest memory.
Memory of a huge, tented ceiling sprung taut with a booming clunk. Of a black, canvas backed cover, also taut, with chromium tags stretched to mate with miniature bollards in matching chrome, forming a windbreak protecting my face - the only exposed area of a swaddled infant - as the high pram pitches and bounces through the slanted rain on curling, leather mounted carriage springs.
Stars, gas lamps, clanking trams, shop windows, hatted faces and umbrellas flit across the open space framed by the dripping hood and the cover's edge, filling my wide eyes.
Intermittent stops accompanied by scraping and scratching, amplified by my cavernous surround, as the cover is lifted carefully while shopping is stowed in the hold beneath my mattress.
Then home to 129 Oban road, Barking, Essex
Some bumps over the steps, through the front door, and a clunk - gentler this time - precedes the collapse of my protective ceiling, then the release of the taut cover allows the roaring, yellow-white incandescent light from the gas mantle to flood over me as strong, warm arms pluck me from my mattress.
Away from the wet oilcloth.
Don't be shy. Tell me what you think!