THINKS I LIKED AS A LAD

Sitting in the lobby of our house, with the vestibule door closed,
And the front door wide open, watching the rain coming down so heavy That the droplets bounced back up off the tarmac.
The grown ups would say it was dancing down.
A good description.

Climbing on top of the back yard walls with my mates.
We would play tick up there, running and jumping from one side
Of the back entry to the other. If you couldn't jump it you'd bellybang it. This was achieved by diving headlong at the top of the wall opposite, throwing your arms over the top and grabbing hold. Your lower body would then come crashing against the wall. Then you'd swarm up onto the top and chase after your mates.

The long dark nights of autumn. Collecting bonfire wood
And storing it on top of the air-raid shelters attached the back of the houses. Duck apple night. The games we played in the street,
Like kick the can, the allio, and such. As winter drew nearer we'd make What we called winter warmers. For these we would use old half gallon Cans, punch holes around the sides and bottom, fill them with paper Wood and coal, oh yes, from the lip of the can we'd Attach a length of wire in a long loop from one side to the other.

Then we'd set the paper alight, and by swinging it in a circle vertically, we ended up with lots of little braziers. Occasionally a wire would break, sending red-hot coals and can flying. When the can hit a wall there would be an explosion of colour. Again this would be played out in the back entries, to any Liverpool lad they were called "jiggers".

The public washing baths of a Saturday morning, I think the price was about six old pence, a tanner For those old enough to remember. If your mum didn't have a clean towel she'd give you an extra penny. With this princely sum you could hire one of their towels. These towels were not folded they were bent in the middle, they were so rigid that they could stand up by themselves.

Drying yourself with one of these was like rubbing yourself down
with sandpaper. There were about twenty cubicles, The whole place was tiled, I think the colour was green. Us kids would be put in two at a time. When it was full, the atmosphere was fantastic. The laughter, squeals, and singing, bounced off the walls, like a rubber ball, ricocheting all over the place. It really was a good childhood.

Boredom, that was a word I was sorry to use. If my father heard me use it his usual response was I know what we'll do, we'll white-wash the back yard shall we. I'd just shrug my shoulders, and say OK. He'd give me some money and send me off to the chandlers in Holt Rd for seven pounds of lime, a dolly blue, and tallow.

When I'd get back, we'd get the buckets and two old sweeping brushes out of this air-raid shelter, fill the buckets with water, deposit the lime, dolly blue, and tallow into the buckets, and watch the explosions as the lime reacted with the water. After a few minutes we'd have a couple of buckets of whitewash. Then we'd dip the brushes into the solution and apply it onto the walls of the yard. It would take us a few hours, but by the time we'd finished the yard would be a brilliant white. When the sun shone the reflection off the
walls would be almost blinding. We must have had the whitest back yard in Liverpool.

There was a game my father used to play, if indeed it could be called a game. As a lad of about nine or ten, I had to be in no later than eight o'clock, I was nearly always late. My father would send one off the other kids who were playing in our street to go and fetch me from wherever I was. I'd come running up and ask what was up. He'd say something like, you should have been in half an hour ago.

He'd be standing at our open front door in his stocking feet with his back against the door, with a mischievous grin on his face. I'd stand with my back against the opposite wall and try to slide past him. We'd be facing each other like two adversaries waiting for the other to blink.

Suddenly I'd make a dash for the kitchen, my dad chasing after me.
Usually I'd feel the flat of his foot up my backside but now and again I'd get to the kitchen first and run around laughing at the fact that I'd beaten him.

He'd be wagging his finger at me saying just wait till next time I'll get you. He could create fun from just about anything. My mum would be telling him to behave himself

He'd put a finger to his lips, his shoulders would be heaving up and down from the chuckles trapped inside him. He was very easy going. He never seemed to lose his temper.