Can Chrissie come out and play?
Someone’s had the idea of running 18 times round the field. If we do that, we’ll be heroes. No need for anyone to watch, or for an adult to tell us Well Done; it’s none of their business anyway. They can stay indoors doing whatever it is they do.
The grass has been cut – quick gather it all up before the freaks from Alzey Gardens get it. We can build a fort with it. Not exactly impregnable ’cos the Alzey gang have just kicked it in, so come on let’s kick in theirs. A bit of a face-off. Hey someone just pushed Mark over – you can’t do that, he’s 10 which makes him a Bison… how did that happen?
The filth fairy has blessed our streets again.
Glynn has found some scraps of porn in the bushes by Crabtree Lane – why don’t we take it in turns to show it to our parents while the others watch.
There is no such thing as a stupid idea, or ever any reason required for doing anything.
Lunch? Hardly. A game of marbles takes five hours to play, if I’m going to win that entire box off Tony. Besides, I nipped in earlier and chugged half a carton of Del Monte. Never been able to win that Emperor of his. Have to hit it 5 times to his 1 with my Oilie or 10 times with my crappy Dobber to win it. Those are the rules. No-one ever wrote those rules down but they are what they are, everyone knows it. 3 months I’ve been trying to win that Emperor and I’ve spent all of my spare money on marble reinforcements down at Bunty’s (and on Blackjacks and Fruitsalads).
We stand on walls and wee from great heights.
We’re not leaving until we’ve put 100 headers and volleys goals past Tony, even if it takes all night. No, I’m Ian Rush. The 3 year old kids want to play but they can’t, obviously. So they gang up, led by Cristian, and go round singing Dexy’s Midnight Runners to anyone they rampage past. That lasts them almost all the summer. I still find it funny in late August but pretend to be bored.
That’s not a lamp-post, that’s Home Base. That’s not a road, that’s a footie pitch. That’s not a scratch, that’s a gaping wound.
It’s freezing outside, so Jonny’s round my place. He’s got the same advent calendar as me and we’re seeing how quickly we can spot the numbers. We’ve been at it for 2 hours somehow. But now it has snowed. I haven’t been able to feel my hands for four hours, but what we’ve built here isn’t an igloo, it’s a bunker.
Apparently there’s a new channel being added, Channel 4. The grownups are going to celebrate watching it all day. I really don’t care, because it’s caterpillar season, so in goes another one in the jam jar and gets called Casper like the hundreds before him. None of them ever make it to butterfly – why do they seem to explode all over the jar? But plenty have avoided imprisonment and made it to be Tigers and Peacocks and Admirals, and they love Mrs Dean’s buddleia bush. Mrs Dean thinks it’s cruel to catch them with our stickleback nets, but she can’t stop 8 of us out in force. Besides, these cones dangle into Glynn’s garden so they’re his, which means ours.
Mrs Marcucci seems to think we should clean up the whole cul-de-sac after our mud fight. She’s done better than Mrs Dean – she’s got 3 more mums on her side, and that outguns us too badly. It was worth it though. Shall I tell her that her daughter Daniella flashed her bum at us last week? No, I’ll save that one. No, I do NOT fancy her.
Wrestling matches in the long green grass. No-one ever cries much, even Jonny when Mark pulls off a snap suplex.
I know I hated you yesterday Tony but now it’s today so let’s play footie for ages.
Slam! We scatter as I drive the ball right into Mrs Gosling’s rattly wooden gate. She’s so old, we’ve always made it to our hiding places before she makes it out, but she still has a good yell into the street. Once my Dad was the one who kicked it, and he hid in Nigel’s garage. Freakiest, funniest thing I ever saw.
Paul reckons he can skid my BMX for 10 metres on the grass. Me and Nigel are about that long and so we lie down end to end to provide measurement. He missed the grass and that hurt a bit, but it’s a noble injury, and what else is my BMX for anyway if not stunts and accidents? And friction burns make brilliant long scabs, worn like medals. My BMX doesn’t make revving noises like Glynn’s Striker, but it’s skill for skids. Glynn getting a Racer is a game-changer; kind of sucks the fun out our chasing games. Feels a bit like the passing of an era.
But what a time it was, while it lasted. There is no limit to what you can do, when you’re outside doing nothing.