A boy who was playing in a back tenfoot with his friends back in 1970, has related, years later, how, whilst sitting precariously on a neighbour's fence, he fell off it, and into a rather large patch of nettles, which stung like fuck.
Wearing only summer clothes, which included a T-shirt, shorts, ankle socks with Dunlop trainers, and a green sun hat, Moys Kenwood, then 7, somehow lost his balance and tumbled into the garden of Mr Sachadina, who lived at the end of a block of eight houses.
Mr Sachadina was also the proprietor of the Irene's newsagent's shop on Wold Road, and, presumably because he was a black man, the shitbag locals referred to him as 'Bongo'.
For the record, he was a lovely man.
As Kenwood fell, he thought:
The nettles provided him with a nice, soft landing, but less than a minute after scampering clear, the seeds of a right, royal itch were beginning to make themselves felt.
But help was at hand.
Near the bed of nettles were some 'dock leaves', and when he rubbed these furiously on his nettle stings, there was a certain amount of relief.
He never sat on Mr Sachadina's fence again.