Recall of the child
Writers’ favourite times
OUR happiest childhood memories include swimming in the pool on holiday and getting our first pet.
Moving house, performing in school plays and making friends when we went away also made the list, according a survey by holiday company On the Beach.
Here, our brilliant writers recall their favourite moments as youngsters.
BRIAN READE
LIKE every selfrespecting child of the 60s, I had a serious drug problem. I was addicted to football. And every other
Saturday was the day I got my fix. I’d play for the school of a morning (and we usually won), buy Goal magazine on the way home, watch Football Focus with a tin of soup, then head to Anfield to watch Liverpool (who usually won). That evening, I’d get the shakes as I went cold turkey waiting for Match of The Day. I’m pleased to report, those Saturdays still give me mind-blowing hits today.
JASON BEATTIE
There was a routine to our Sundays which rarely varied.
First, my parents took us to the pub. My sister and I were left outside, regardless of the weather, and handed a bottle of Coke and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps to share.
Then, usually when the sun was beginning to set, we went for a long walk.
As my father did not believe in maps or signs or designated footpaths (he saw a “no trespass” sign as an invitation rather than a warning) this inevitably meant we got lost. In the dark.
This may sound miserable. I liked it so much, I inflicted the same joy on my own children – though they got a packet of crisps each.
RACHAEL BLETCHLY
I was a right show-off as a kid and dreamed of being a star of musical theatre.
So I was always first up the aisle at a panto or end-of-pier show when the entertainers invited kids on to the stage.
I sat on the knee of legendary comic Charlie Chester as he sang a panto song and got a toy dog from Bruce Forsyth after taking part in a game.
But I can still remember the thrill of being in the spotlight with Ted Rogers (later of 3-2-1 fame) singing Gilly Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellen Bogen by the Sea, and getting applause.
Weymouth, 1973 – my X Factor moment. My brother was dying of embarrassment. Made it even more special.
KEVIN MAGUIRE
We were too poor to go to a hotel with a swimming pool, or even a hotel without a pool, so it was a bus ride to the local beach for us.
Dad would put up a little tent and Mam roll out the rug. Then it was chip sarnies with sandy bits and plastic beakers of warm diluted orange
juice or, if were lucky, pop. Six kids, three boys and three girls, gave us enough players for a kickabout with the plastic football and, yes, jumpers really were used for goalposts.
In my memories, it was always sunny during the school summer holidays in South Shields, Tyneside, and we enjoyed the simple pleasures.
Where did it all go right?
POLLY HUDSON
I was eight and my mum took me to a Sooty show. For about five minutes I was living the dream, in peak ecstasy.
Then I noticed all the other kids had Sooty puppets from the merchandise stall.
I begged, pleaded, sulked and re-begged my mum, but she refused to give in.
Today, I can see that she’d already forked out for expensive tickets for a show only one of us wanted to see.
Back then, she was beyond mean. But afterwards, as we made our way out, I found a puppet under a seat.
It was a win all round. Apart from for the kid who lost it.
PAUL ROUTLEDGE
I’m nine years old, on the beach by the harbour in Scarborough, and the sun is sinking low over the horizon.
It’s still warm but the tide is coming in, and rippling waves are washing at the sandcastle I’ve built with bits of driftwood as fortifications.
I know the North Sea is going to win, but I try to dig channels round my creation to slow down the erosion. The water swirls past, and then over. Time to admit defeat. There will be another castle tomorrow.
Meanwhile, how about having a go on the sixpenny machine on the fish pier?
Moving the big brass pointer to letters of the alphabet and bashing out my name on a thin metal plate. Satisfyingly vain.
RHIAN LUBIN
When we got our first and only family dog, Bruce the golden retriever, he lit up our lives.
He was also a bit of a handful/poorly trained. On the third night in a row of being woken up at
3am to dog poo on the carpet, my dad said: “We need to rethink this.”
Luckily we didn’t and once Bruce was toilet trained, letting him run along the beach in Porthcawl, South Wales, is a memory I will always cherish.
Before he ran off with a very angry fisherman’s lunch...