This series of stories will be titled 'I'm surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood ...' 40

My grandmother (father’s mother) had an eye for a ‘bargain’. She would buy bags full of clothes and donate them to my mother for us three to wear.

She’d buy things in bulk and snap up bargains – nothing wrong with that, of course, except, she’d buy things that were cheap because she thought my mother ‘needed’ them too.

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Actually, it almost seems like she scoured the village for cast-offs – as long as they were clean and roughly the right size, she’d snap them all up. For us, her three eldest grandchildren. When my cousin (father’s sister’s kid) arrived and started growing, do you think she had to wear horrible, out of date, second-hand clothes? NOT A BIT OF IT!

My aunt wouldn’t give second-hand anything house-room!

I suppose it was because my grandmother didn’t believe my mother was ‘up to scratch’ in any department. If we didn’t wear the clothes my grandmother sent, or if she saw us wearing something she’d not bought, she would go into guilt-trip mode.

“Aren’t the clothes I bought for the kids good enough? Don’t worry, I’ll take them back. I’ll not buy any more…” Oh woe is me! I was only trying to be a benefactor because you have so little…

Good Grief!

If there was anything in a bundle that was green and my size, that was it.

She once bought some utterly HORRIBLE green houndstooth-pattern trousers. I can’t remember if they were nylon or the horrible scratchy fabric – either way, I LOATHED them!

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So that’s exactly what I had to wear when we went down to their house on a Sunday. Every Sunday - of COURSE!

If my aunts took me out to buy clothes (for Christmas etc), they would make me wear something horrible – and usually green.

As soon as the shopping trip was over, I’d strip off the clothes and wander ‘round in my underwear rather than wear the scratchy, horrible clothes.

After stripping off those green houndstooth trousers, one of my aunts laughed at me.

“You didn’t want to just try on those clothes when we were out. You had to go into the changing room, even though those people will never see you again and these people that you’re parading around in front of, you’ll see every week!” (Yes, they had tried to make me try on the clothes in the middle of a crowded, public place – who does that to a teen?)

Seriously? Who wants to get undressed and dressed in full view of a lot of strangers?

Grandmother, I think you’re the reason I don’t like the colour green. No, scratch that, you’re definitely the reason I don’t like the colour green.

My favourite colour is, and has always been, red. I like red – I just do.

I was never allowed to wear anything red because my grandmother said so.

Bloody hell she was a bully! My mother couldn’t rock the boat because of how much she helped out with money, and I’m not even sure she’d have said anything to her even if she wasn’t shackled by the threat of, “You’ll get nothing more from me!”

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One day I found a pair of red trousers in a bag of donated clothes and I wore those trousers long after they were worn out. They were too big for me, but I didn’t care, they were RED!

I pulled them out of the middle of the bag. They were bell-bottoms, elasticated waist, thick jersey fabric (think t-shirt material, but a lot thicker) and I loved them on sight.

I wore those trousers everywhere, mostly out playing on the street.

At the end of the street, there’s a ‘gitty’ (pronounce the ‘g’ like ‘germ’). A ‘gitty is a little footpath through – a shortcut that has been adopted by the authorities (in this case).

Right in the middle of that gap, there was a concrete pole. We used to leap-frog that pole and I practiced until I could do it like the bigger kids (lads mainly… the girls didn’t do that kind of thing, and neither should I)…

The pole was a square concrete thing, with a chunk missing from an accident one of my brother’s friend’s had. He slammed into the pole when he lost control of his bike (pushbike, not motorbike) and hit his head on the concrete. It must have had a fault in it because the missing chunk was around five inches long.

I believe it was coming on to winter because it was dark and yet we were all still out, playing.

Some of the bigger lads were there, for a change, and they were all leap-frogging the pole.

The crowd was bigger than usual, swelled by the draw of the bigger lads, I suppose. Girls that didn’t usually come and play the rough-and-tumble games with us younger kids were there.

I couldn’t wait to show them all what I could do now!

I took a run-up and hopped over the pole using my hands placed on top for leverage.

Perfect!

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Everyone that wanted to took turns and then it was my turn again.

The lovely, warm red trousers were a little too big for me, remember, and I had to keep pulling them up.

Second time for the leap-frog and – WONDERFUL! I was keeping up with the experts.

Third time… run up, place my hands on top of the pole, one on top of the other, leap forward to clear the top of the pole, bringing my hands forward in front of me once my momentum had pushed me far enough…

And… the crotch of those trousers caught on the pole.

My momentum was abruptly stopped and I swung forward and down. I only-just managed to stop myself face-planting against the concrete pole by sheer instinct.

And then laughter! Not mine…

Looking back, it really must have been hilarious. I was hanging upside down from my trousers, unable to get up because I refused to slip out of the offending garment in order to free myself from the pole.

One of the big lads came close to jeer at me and I reached out a hand, grabbed the leg of his jeans and pulled myself upright, almost de-bagging him in the process!

Don’t you just wish some of your memories weren’t quite so vivid?

Pole – 1

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