Wow. I go on a trip with Lucy for a few days and all hell breaks loose!
On Sunday morning, I left with Lucy in our new car for a road trip. No, not in a Rapide, but a white Morgan.
I had a dream to realize . . . offline.
Back when I was a little kid, maybe 11, I had a paper route in Eastern Green, Coventry. I would wake up at 6 am using the travel alarm clock that my Dad got as a gift from someone at work, walk up Hockley Lane, down Sutton Avenue, to the back door of Clifton’s Newsagents. The streets were empty. I was the first one up.
I would pause at the dooor for a moment and dream of the day when I would be driving a car like the store owner’s white Morgan convertible that was parked out the back next to the door. Then I would go in. Oh, the owner was up before me!
After Frodsham Hill, Clifton’s was the next stop down my memory hole.
It’s great to be back! My memories are cast in amber. Frozen in time. A perfect calibration point between the UK of today, and the UK in my mind – pre 1975.
Lucy was impressed with my stories. I told her how I treated my Raleigh 5-speed as if it was a car. I just remembered . . . it was not a 10-speed. I would roar the “engine” as I ramped up speed and changed gears. I knew how engines sounded as the gears changed. I knew how I had to let off the accelerator when I clutched . . . for that smooooth shift. I even had a gutteral sub-routine down pat for when this unfortunate thing happened: “och, I blew the shift!”
I watched my Dad do it in the variety of cars he drove while at Standard / Standard-Triumph / Triumph / British Leyland. I sucked everything in like a black hole.
I drove a powerful bicycle in those days. Or maybe it was me? I can’t remember.
Lucy wanted to know if anyone ever heard me make these weird noises. I would stop to pick up passengers on Goldthorn Close, opposite the newsagents. I don’t remember. I was in my own little world. I didn’t care. I was having lots of fun. My car turned into a bus for a few minutes.
We parked the Morgan and walked past the lamp posts on Goldthorn close. Ah, the memories. I remembered being the conductor with that metal ticket machine. I developed the art of stopping my bicycle and balancing without touching my feet on the ground in that fantasy bus-land.
The passengers were all such nice people too. We often had litttle chats.
Anyway, when you are a kid, dreams are not screwed up by pesky details . . . like money. Many things are “money.” Swapping, favours, football cards, conkers . . .
Or half a fiver. If someone takes it . . . it is now money!
It doesn’t matter if anyone heard me revving my imaginary engine anyway. I was a legend in my own Walter Mitty mind . . . just like all kids. Look at the kids now. They are just like you were. Oblivious to money details.
Your inner child is dying to break out again . . . to live out loud . . .
Don’t worry if anyone looks at you funny.
Just do your thang. Say your thang!
Source: moby – we are made of stars
Oh, Clifton’s Newsagents has changed its name to Stars Newsagents.