My life . . . Already?
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Was it so long ago? (2)
posted Sunday, 19 December 2004
The world exploded.
Swirling translucent green. Ears hammered by roaring, gurgling bubbles. Arms and legs frantically threshing and reaching - touching nothing but the cold wetness.
My engulfed mind replayed the day. Uncle Arthur and Dad conspiring to smuggle the yellow Kraft cheese spread box with us on the trip to Barking Park. Its transformation from cardboard carton to galleon bobbing in the boating lake as I kneeled between the string handled, stickleback prison jam jars. The stocking nets stirring mud and weed as eager fisherboys reached out their canes in search of the big one - the Moby Dick of all tiddlers.
Caught by a change of wind, the galleon set sail in a hurry. Anxiously, I stretched to pull it back to harbour. Then I was tumbling through the chilling alien greenness, my yells of surprised panic just noisy bubbles bouncing over my open lips.
Whoosh! Daylight and voices as my hair was grabbed to yank me to the footpath, muddy water spilling in all directions.
Onlookers' faces crowded out the sky. "Poor little soul." "I think he's OK." "Here, take my handkerchief to dry him off."
Father and uncle together scooped me up and hugged me on to the open staircased bus. "Take him down the front, near the engine. It's warmer there," fussed the anxious conductor.
Sheepish brothers-in-law handed me to mum and Auntie Doll. Brisk, caring, business-like towelling, in front of the warm glowing bars of the black kitchen range, soon ended my shivering and I was carried upstairs.
Exhausted, but cosily snuggled - and to a background of raised voices from the room below - sleep's safety soon rescued me from the day's terrors.
Swirling translucent green. Ears hammered by roaring, gurgling bubbles. Arms and legs frantically threshing and reaching - touching nothing but the cold wetness.
My engulfed mind replayed the day. Uncle Arthur and Dad conspiring to smuggle the yellow Kraft cheese spread box with us on the trip to Barking Park. Its transformation from cardboard carton to galleon bobbing in the boating lake as I kneeled between the string handled, stickleback prison jam jars. The stocking nets stirring mud and weed as eager fisherboys reached out their canes in search of the big one - the Moby Dick of all tiddlers.
Caught by a change of wind, the galleon set sail in a hurry. Anxiously, I stretched to pull it back to harbour. Then I was tumbling through the chilling alien greenness, my yells of surprised panic just noisy bubbles bouncing over my open lips.Whoosh! Daylight and voices as my hair was grabbed to yank me to the footpath, muddy water spilling in all directions.
Onlookers' faces crowded out the sky. "Poor little soul." "I think he's OK." "Here, take my handkerchief to dry him off."
Father and uncle together scooped me up and hugged me on to the open staircased bus. "Take him down the front, near the engine. It's warmer there," fussed the anxious conductor.
Sheepish brothers-in-law handed me to mum and Auntie Doll. Brisk, caring, business-like towelling, in front of the warm glowing bars of the black kitchen range, soon ended my shivering and I was carried upstairs.
Exhausted, but cosily snuggled - and to a background of raised voices from the room below - sleep's safety soon rescued me from the day's terrors.
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