I remember my dad trying to film a passing steam strain. The sound recoding ruined by my sister. “Who the bloody hell was that crying?” frozen on a piece of tape and listened to for years.
I remember playing on the building site at the end of the road. The racks of roofing struts became a splinter, imparting slide.
I remember creating a complicated warren of tracks in the wheat fields at the edge of the estate and a purple-faced man gesticulating wildly. Farmers don’t appreciate imagination, yet they can run fast.
I remember trying to sail planks of wood across muddy, drainage ditches. We persuaded my sister to try first. She went home socking wet while we moved to a different game.
I remember the sweet, smell of tomatoes growing in the warmth of granddad’s greenhouse and the threating cluck of hens as we went to collect eggs.
I remember birthday parties – the child who ate all the icing off the domino biscuits and the ones who fell in our pond.
I remember the summer holidays had sunshine apart from the one in Scotland.
I remember the gentle gasp as the skin was pierced on Grandma’s rice pudding and the fight over who got seconds.
I remember and hold on to the things in my childhood as if they are precious diamonds that are too valuable to lose.