I can see them now, the rolling verdant hillsides. They were vivid green, speckled with yellow buttercups. The tiny brook meandered through willowy grass while the warm breeze was.....
INCREDULOUS, what the hell are you talking about? That wasn't your childhood memory, you stole it, give it back.
Your childhood belonged to the backstreets of a Liverpool suburb.
Playing marbles in the gutter, making hiding places in the holly bushes of the local park, daft bugger, you were always in constant pain.
Reading American comic books, they were so exciting to a six year old. Idolising Doctor Who and especially James Bond and....
Nah! What I remember most are the bullies, but I could do a fair impression of Uriah Heap even then. I would be ever so humble and when the chips were down I could run like the clappers. Now, sometimes climbing a staircase is a little like mountaineering.
They were great days....for the bullies.
Now and again I would pack my 'Man From Uncle' suitcase with some butties and set off in the twilight, determined to make my way in the world.
Twenty minutes of walking around the block, seeing boogie men in every shadow cast on the street, catching fleeting images of ghosts and hearing footsteps behind me when nobody was there, it seemed like twenty hours. I was soon
at me mums front door again.
Later on I would not be leaving the house voluntarily but arse and collared out of the door and told to....gulp... find a job.
They were great days....for the ghosts and ghoulies and the imagination.