Taken from the current edition of The Trumpit.
Perhaps like me the memories of those seemingly never-ending school holidays seem from another age? As the end of the summer term approached, what to do with the luxury of six weeks of freedom seemed an impossible task.
Six whole weeks of my Mum not shaking me from the comfort of my warm pit. At last, the worn school trousers could go in the bin having somehow lasted a full school year ending bald, threadbare and tattered. And six whole weeks without a haircut!
As I lay in bed contemplating my choices the chances of six weeks of “room-service” were quickly dismissed. Eventually, I would haul myself out of bed and see what the “café” was serving downstairs.
The Cafe
Usually the Char Lady – Mum – would be stood by her twin-tub, a machine that seemed to make more noise than a plane taking off although, at that stage in my life, the only plane I had flown was a paper one for which I received a few clips around the ear in Mrs Geldart’s English class.
If I hung around long enough blackmail usually worked, as did the potential shame of sending me back to school in September suffering from malnutrition.
However, the kitchen was my Mum’s domain; nobody was allowed to enter, which was just as well as it could just about accommodate her. We pressed her for years to extend it but secretly we knew this was her place of peace.
Choices, Choices
After I had mopped up the runny yolk of my boiled eggs with lumps of bread covered in Anchor butter, what to do with the rest of the day was determined by one thing. If there was a test match on the telly then that was the day sorted.
I would move into the front-room, beg a cup of tea, close the blinds and await the magic of Richie Benaud’s voice and the other greats of the art of cricket commentary.
My Mum was only allowed to enter the room with either food or drink as darkness descended no matter what the weather outside. As the telly brought to life the heroes of the day, feet were placed up and life was good. School was a distant memory.
The Great Outdoors
Without the telly to entertain me there was always plenty to get up to with our new found freedoms. Most days we would go round to the cricket field and play whatever game we fancied depending on how many of us had actually got out of bed that day.
The summer of 1976 sticks in my mind as a 13 year-old as the sun seemed to shine all summer, parching the grass like straw although nobody had heard of global warming. We’d lay listless in the sun turning red.
On cooler days we’d roam fields now covered in houses for adventure and mischief. It really did seem that our days of freedom would never end.
Re-fueling
If we really had to we would return home just to get fed but these were reluctant pit-stops and the aim was to stay out as long as the light and our parents would allow.
Sometimes we got on our bikes and expanded our horizons via rickety old machines that splattered you with oil from the chain and relied on brakes that were more hope than sophisticated engineering.
I’m not sure what we ever talked about to make those days seem endless and the cast of characters would ebb and flow governed by parental calls and, sometimes, the odd fallout.
Richie Goes Home
Girls would often be the reason although they remained a complete mystery. And then, no sooner had I been lying in my warm bed anticipating a life of luxury for at least six weeks, it was all over.
September and school loomed like our worst nightmares evidenced by new school uniforms and the shortening of the once endless days. The morning dew came and there was even less motivation to get out of bed as it was cold now.
Even Richie Benaud had gone home!
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