Lots of fun at the funfair
SWINGS and roundabouts and a bit of excitement on the dodgems and dive bomber – that’s what a REAL funfair is about – not inflatable slides and jumping castles; that’s really kids’ stuff. In years past, when I was a boy and even a young man, we had our fun alright. The funfair in those days was at Marine Park where the East London Convention Centre now stands.
Funfairs in those days were just that. There was even a ferris wheel which couldn’t compete with the mighty London Eye on the bank of the River Thames.
There was a terrifying thing called “the whip” that flung us about like rag dolls, and then there was the octopus, eight small “cars” at the end of eight arms which bucked and banked as it rotated, rose and fell. Those were the days.
Later, when our two children were growing up, we often took them to the funfair at this time. I wrote about one of our visits in this column and came across the story again recently. It was December 1987; Andrew was 11, Nicola, 8, and all week they had been nagging. “Dad, when can we go to the funfair?” One night just before Christmas I arrived home from work and, ready to relax with a cold beer, Nicola (no doubt prompted by Andrew who felt she was the best bet at wrapping dad around her little finger), came running up: “Can we go to the funfair tonight?”
My emphatic “no” made her bright smile fade. “It’s too windy, and I’m tired,” I said. Then I heard her asking her mum quietly, hoping I couldn’t hear: “Can’t we go to the funfair tonight?” To which mum replied: “Ask your father.”
Just then cousin Patrick, also 11, appeared. He and his parents were staying with my mother across the road. “We’re going to the funfair tonight,” he announced. The pressure was overwhelming, and I relented. “All right then, we’ll all go.”
The whoops of joy as they gobbled down their supper and I ate mine, were tempered when my brother-in-law walked in. “We’ve decided to stay at home, but here’s R10 to spend on Patrick.” They’d had a “tough” afternoon, driving up to King William’s Town to look at antique shops, and later playing the one-armed bandits at Bhisho casino. “I don’t particularly want to go either,” said Mrs Chiel. “I’ve got lots to do, and besides there’s North and South on television. It was my face’s turn to drop, but there was no going back.
The prices of rides were a shock; 75c to a rand was the most I expected to pay. Oh no, it was R1.50 for minor rides; R2 for others. “Okay, you can have three each,” I told the three children while we wandered around deciding who wanted what. Andrew and Nicola went for the “tame” tilt-a-whirl first, followed by the octopus. Patrick, more reserved, opted for the jets, but was undecided about the rest.
They all took their first ride, and then Nicola pleaded: “Please come with us on the octopus, dad.” Against my better judgment I agreed to. This really was kids’ stuff, not the sort of thing for grown adults, I thought. We climbed into our little car and were twirled around, being dipped and ducked in an erratic ride. The children screamed with delight while I wished it would all end as soon as possible, thinking of Mum Chiel at home being left without any of us if the thing came apart. Nicola said later that I chuckled and giggled throughout. I didn’t remember. It must have been the nervous sort.
The swings turned out to be a hit for the children as they learnt to hold onto each other, then kick the chair in front away, soaring high into the night sky. They did that ride twice and we came away with them all having had four rides apiece (the octopus was enough for me), instead of the stipulated three, and hopefully there’d be no more nagging for another year.
To this day (now, 2015), I still can’t help feeling that what you lose on the swings, you gain on the roundabouts – mind you it could well have been the other way round. —